Edward

She's the shadow of the woman I know. A ghost. Mother stands, nylon stockings on hardwood, a porcelain cup with a dusting of steam cradled in jeweled fingers. Her wedding set looks like pure mockery, another reminder of what's gone. Next to her, my uncle Marcus speaks in a soft voice. She nods absentmindedly, her emerald gaze locked on the view outside the window.

I bite on my lower lip, cheeks aflame with guilt and shame. I don't dare look anyone in the eye, and blink rapidly, my feet shuffling nervously until my sister grabs my elbow. She's in heels, almost just as tall as I am, her posture immaculate and impressive. The ever confident Cullen. Now that my father has passed, the title is definitely for Rosalie.

"This isn't about you." She shoves a tall glass of water into my hands. "Sober the fuck up, already." She looks worried, older, her tone hushed.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself."

My honesty earns me a glare.

"I lost my father too, Edward." It's all she says, guilt dripping over me slowly, like the wax of a candle that's been burning for far too long. "But Mom just lost everything, okay?"

It's the most she's spoken to me in ages.

As if she's got the hearing of a bird of prey, my mom's head turns. Her brows furrow when she catches my gaze, the worry line in between them more pronounced.

She beckons me over, wordless.

I take a deep breath, chewing my gum anxiously.

"Son…" It comes out as a sigh. A louded, painful one.

"I'm sorry, Mom." My eyes are burning, and the clouds seem to shift from my mind. I need something to bring them back. To make it bearable.

"Your punctuality, Edward... you will have to work on that."

Sure, Mother.

I nod.

"I'm sorry I missed the service. I slept through six alarms."

"And eleven phone calls from me and your sister."

I swallow thickly.

"Yeah, I can't find my phone anywhere. I must have lost it somewhere."

Another, painful sigh. It's like a stab in the heart. God knows I need to try harder, step it up. For them.

"Have some espresso, Edward. You look tired beyond your years." In the most motherly way, my mother sets aside her feelings, her grief to watch over me. It's who she is, maternal as fuck. She brushes a strand of my hair off my forehead.

Just when I think I'll walk off and blend in, Mother ushers the head of our household over, her tray full of coffee. I take one, the porcelain brittle underneath my touch.

"Stay a while." How can I deny her, with her sad, emerald eyes? One hand on my forearm warms my entire body, even though the house is toasty warm.

I nod.

"You'll need to step in, darling." Mother's eyes bore right through me.

"Mom, I'm not ready."

"You better get ready, then. It's showtime," Rose cuts in.