You can't help but think that this is somehow your fault. Sixteen years of heartache, and you can't remember even once saying to her "I love you." That's not to say you didn't, because you did. But you spent every moment of every day pushing her away with every tiny action. Now that you've realized this, you'd give anything to be able to start over, to tweak the mother-daughter dynamic you never managed to master into something resembling normal, into something that wouldn't have ended like this. The warning signs were obvious, and maybe if you hadn't been so wrapped up in your own issues you'd have seen them, and then you wouldn't be in the ladies' room at a funeral home, trying to make yourself presentable before facing everyone.
You haven't cried over any of this yet, not even when you pushed open the bathroom door and found her lying there on the tile floor with empty pill bottles scattered around her. You're almost glad you two were the only ones in the house at the time, because if anyone had seen your reaction they'd have thought you were heartless. You didn't panic, you didn't scream, you just knelt down and calmly felt for a pulse (you thought you found one, but it may have been your imagination) before calling 911. When the paramedics arrived you were sitting on the floor, cradling her head in your lap. They let themselves in and followed the sound of your voice to bathroom and ushered you out of the way as they jumped into action, trying save her even though it was clear that there was nothing they could do.
A neighbor drove you to the hospital; the lights and the siren on the ambulance had gotten his attention and he was helping you into the passenger seat of his Volvo before you could protest. Neither of you said anything during the ride because neither of you knew what to say. Everything that happened from the time you walked into the emergency room and approached the triage desk to the time the doctor came out the doors of the trauma room was sort of a blur, but at least you weren't alone when you finally heard the words "I'm so sorry. We did everything we could." You weren't sure who had called him but he was by your side, literally holding your hand through everything.
That was four days ago. Today you're in the ladies' room at the funeral home, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You're barely ready to face yourself, let alone the friends and family who are already arriving for her memorial service. You're speaking, of course, though you're still not entirely sure what to say. You'll probably end up making it up as you go along; that seems to be how you've handled everything lately anyway.
You think you're finally ready to do this, and you slowly open the door and step out into the lobby. The last few people are trickling in, and the funeral director escorts you to the front of the room. You look straight ahead to avoid seeing any of the pitying looks that you're sure are being directed at you. You can hear "Blackbird" playing softly under the mourners' hushed conversation; it was always one of her favorite songs. One of yours, too, actually. You're vaguely aware of the funeral director addressing the room, and then you realize that it's your turn to speak.
You smooth your skirt and tug at the hem of your sweater as you approach the podium. You look out at the crowd and see only a handful of familiar faces; everyone else must be friends of hers.
You clear your throat before speaking. "I—"
You find yourself blinking back tears. You inhale and try speaking again. "I'm not really sure what to say. Natalie is—was our little pride and joy, our perfect plan. Her Yale acceptance letter came yesterday…"