She Buried Her Mother, Then Her Family

PROLOGUE

Before the funeral, I bought my mother a private mausoleum worth a quarter of a million dollars.

My father s response came swiftly.

You re quite the hypocrite, aren t you? You knew your mother valued peace and quiet.

All this fanfare, he sneered, just to make sure everyone knows how rich you are.

I stood frozen, assuming his grief was twisting his words.

I tried to explain, my voice low, that I only wanted Mom to have a dignified departure.

He shot me a look of pure contempt and changed the subject.

This godforsaken place is loud and gaudy. How is she supposed to rest in peace here?

I glanced at the mausoleum s orientation.

It overlooked her favorite camellia botanical garden.

I started to explain the sentimental value, the fact that this was her final wish.

But he shoved me aside, stubbornly pointing to the crowded memorial forest nearby.

Your sister was right. A sea scattering or a memorial tree is better for the environment. And it doesn t cost a damn thing.

His voice rose with every word, his face flushing with anger.

He kicked a nearby wreath, sending white flowers scattering across the manicured grass.

Everything has to be a competition with you. Easy come, easy go with your money, right? You don t feel a thing spending it.

Not like your sister. She s always thinking about how to save, how to be frugal for the family.

My heart didn t just break; it froze over, layer by painful layer.

I pulled out my phone and called the cemetery manager.

That night, I had the plot sold.

With the money, I bought myself an oceanfront villa.

01

My mother s funeral, and my father was late.

By the time he arrived, all the guests were seated.

The funeral director was just about to begin the service.

He wore an out-of-place brown jacket, his hair a disheveled mess, stubble scratching at his jaw.

The stale reek of cheap whiskey clung to him.

He cut straight through the small crowd of mourners and stopped directly in front of me.

His first words weren't of comfort.

They were an accusation.

Sloane, who the hell gave you permission to buy such an expensive mausoleum?

I was in the middle of arranging the white chrysanthemums before Mom s portrait, a large, beautiful photo of her smiling among her camellias.

My hands froze.

This plot, this structure, was something I d poured my heart into selecting.

It was nestled on a gentle slope, overlooking the sprawling botanical garden below.

A quarter of a million dollars.

It had taken nearly every cent I d saved since I started working.

But it was worth it.

My mother had worked herself to the bone her entire life.

I wanted her final resting place to be one of beauty and peace, a place she would have truly loved.

Dad, Mom loved this place, I explained, my voice barely a whisper, forcing my own grief down into a tight, hard knot in my chest.

She loved it? He let out a short, scornful laugh, his eyes scanning the tasteful arrangements with utter contempt. What do you know about what she loved?

His voice wasn t loud, but in the solemn silence of the chapel, it was as jarring as a scream.

I could feel the shifting weight of our relatives gazes, their whispers like the rustling of dry leaves.

A hot flush of shame crept up my neck.

I tugged lightly at his sleeve.

Dad, can we talk about this later?

He yanked his arm away as if my touch had burned him.

No, we ll talk about it right now! Do you think because you make a little money, you re suddenly better than everyone? That you can just do whatever you want without consulting anyone?

I stared at his face, red and contorted with an anger I d rarely seen.

It was like looking at a stranger.

Growing up, my father, Walter Caldwell, had always been a mild, almost weak-willed man.

At home, my mother, Eleanor, made all the decisions.

He hardly ever raised his voice.

But now, it was as if some dam of resentment had burst inside him.

He was using the cruelest words he could find, and they were all aimed at me.

02

I didn t& I started, but he cut me off.

You didn t? he jabbed a finger toward the corner of the room where my sister, Hailey, was weeping dramatically. Look at Hailey! Your mother is gone, and she s cried herself sick.

And you? You re standing here like nothing s happened, with the energy to put on this whole ridiculous, empty spectacle!

I followed his pointing finger.

Hailey was surrounded by a few aunts, her shoulders heaving in what appeared to be profound sorrow.

But just two minutes earlier, I had seen her.

She was tucked away in the alcove, tapping away at her phone, a small, secret smile on her face as she texted someone saved as My Baby d'?.

A cold knot of disgust tightened in my stomach.

Sloane, my father s tone suddenly shifted, becoming calmer but carrying an unmistakable command. You re going to return this plot. We ll scatter your mother s ashes at sea.

I was stunned into silence for a moment.

What did you say?

Your sister s idea, he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. She said green burials are the trend now. Sea scattering, memorial trees& they re simple, peaceful, and they don t cost anything.

He was proud of this logic, his chest puffing out slightly.

Your mother was a frugal woman her whole life. This is what she would have wanted.

His voice started to rise again, the accusatory edge returning.

Look at you, throwing money around, always having to have the best of everything. It s easy for you, you make so much you don t even feel it.

Not like Hailey. She s always thinking of the family, always trying to save.

So that s final, he declared, his voice ringing with authority. Cancel the mausoleum. Get the money back.

He turned to leave then, as if he had just solved a major problem and his work here was done.

In that single, dismissive turn, something deep inside me shattered.

My money was *easy*?

I thought of the project that had me working hundred-hour weeks, ending with a stress-induced ulcer that put me in the emergency room.

I thought of the condescending clients, the endless networking events, the night I drank so much to close a deal that I ended up with alcohol poisoning.

Did they know about any of that?

No.

They didn t.

All they knew was that every month, a substantial amount of money appeared in their bank account, transferred from mine.

All they knew was that if Hailey wanted a new designer bag or a piece of jewelry, all she had to do was ask her big sister.

I stared at my father s retreating back.

Then I looked over at Hailey, still performing her heart-wrenching grief for her audience.

A quiet, chilling clarity washed over me.

03

I took out my phone.

I stepped into a quiet corner of the hallway, away from the prying eyes, and dialed the number for the cemetery manager.

Hello, Mr. Davison? It s Sloane Caldwell. Yes, that s right. About the private mausoleum I purchased from you& the quarter-million-dollar one&

My father must have noticed my absence. He appeared at the chapel doorway, his eyes narrowing.

He thought I was surrendering.

Hailey, too, had peeked out, her teary eyes now fixed on me with hopeful expectation.

I held their gazes, my voice clear and steady as I spoke into the phone.

I don t want it anymore. Please put it on the market for me. I d like to sell it.

Then I added the final blow.

And while you re at it, I saw that you also handle real estate. I d like to make an offer on one of those new oceanfront villas. Use the money from the mausoleum sale for the down payment.

The sooner, the better.

The smug satisfaction on my father s face froze, cracking like thin ice.

Sloane, what did you just say?

I ended the call and met his gaze with a calm I didn t know I possessed.

You heard me. I m not buying the mausoleum.

He stared at me, his mind slowly processing my words.

The confusion on his face morphed into pure rage.

You wouldn t dare! Your mother isn t even in the ground, and you re trading her resting place for your own goddamn house? You ungrateful bitch!

He lunged toward me, his hand raised to strike.

Before he could reach me, my uncle and a few of my cousins jumped up, grabbing his arms and holding him back.

Walter, calm down! Let s just talk this through! my uncle pleaded.

Talk it through? My father struggled against their grip, his eyes bloodshot and wild. Are you seeing this? Do you see what she s done? Her mother s body is still warm!

His voice, raw and filled with manufactured outrage, echoed through the chapel.

He was putting on a performance of his own, casting me as the heartless, villainous daughter.

The whispers among the relatives grew louder.

Heads turned in my direction, their eyes now filled with disapproval.

Sloane, that wasn t right. How could you trade your mother s plot for a house? one of my aunts murmured, shaking her head.

Come on, Sloane. Your dad's just thinking about the cost. Try not to take it to heart, another chimed in, trying to play peacemaker.

I ignored them all.

Their opinions were meaningless, just noise in a room already filled with hypocrisy.

04

I walked directly over to Hailey.

My father s outburst had startled her out of her sorrowful act.

She was standing there, wide-eyed and motionless.

Was it you, I asked, my voice quiet but sharp, who told Dad we should scatter Mom s ashes at sea?

Her eyes darted away, unable to meet mine.

I& I just thought it was more environmentally friendly, she stammered. And& and Mom mentioned once that she loved the ocean&

A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips.

My mother was terrified of the water.

She got seasick on the calmest of days.

She wouldn t even get on a paddleboat in a park pond, let alone a vessel on the open sea.

What else did she tell you? I pressed, refusing to let her look away.

She& she said& Hailey twisted her fingers together, her mind racing to invent another lie. She said she didn t like to be disturbed& she wanted to be somewhere quiet and peaceful&

So you suggested my father have her ashes thrown to the winds, ensuring she would never have a moment of peace for all eternity? Is that it?

My voice was soft, but each word landed like a slap.

Hailey s face went pale.

That s not what I meant! Sloane, how can you think that about me? Her eyes welled up with fresh tears, the performance restarting on cue. I was just worried about you& you work so hard for your money&

You re worried about me? A real, humorless smile touched my lips this time. You, with the brand-new phone I bought you, carrying the limited-edition handbag I bought you, are telling me you re worried about *my* finances?

My gaze dropped to her wrist, to the elegant vintage Cartier watch that was wrapped around it.

That watch, I said, my voice hardening, was Mom s. An Art Deco piece she left for me. She told me it was to be my wedding gift one day. The day before yesterday, you asked if you could borrow it to show your friends. I said yes. Now, can I have it back?

Hailey instinctively clutched her wrist, taking a half-step back.

The watch was a beautiful piece, easily worth thirty thousand dollars.

Sloane, I& I was just keeping it safe for you&

I don t need you to keep it safe anymore. I held out my hand, palm up. Give it back.

Her face flushed, a mottled mix of red and white.

She looked desperately toward my father for rescue.

He was still being restrained by my uncle and cousins, but his voice boomed across the room, as potent as ever.

Sloane! That s enough! Your mother just passed, and you re bullying your sister like this? Have you no conscience?

I slowly retracted my hand, my gaze never leaving Hailey s face.

This farce was over.

05

I turned to the funeral director, who had been watching the entire drama unfold with a pained, professional stoicism.

Please, continue the service.

Then, I walked to the entrance of the chapel, where the scuffle was still happening.

I looked directly at my father.

Dad, I said, my voice resonating with cold finality. If you want to see another single penny from me for the rest of your life, you will sit down, shut up, and act with a shred of dignity. If not, we can settle everything, right here and now.

His struggling stopped.

He stared at me, his eyes burning with a furious, impotent rage.

But behind the anger, I saw something else: fear.

He knew I meant it.

He knew I would cut him off without a second thought.

The chapel, at last, fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

The service concluded.

The guests departed, murmuring condolences mixed with gossip.

As I was leaving, I got a call from Mr. Davison, the cemetery manager.

He informed me that a buyer had already been found for the mausoleum.

The full quarter of a million dollars would be in my account by the afternoon.

My father and Hailey trailed behind me as we drove home, the silence in the car thick with unspoken resentment.

When we got back to the house, the fragile truce shattered.

My father couldn't hold it in any longer.

Where s the money? he demanded.

What money? I asked, sitting down on the sofa and pouring myself a glass of water, my movements slow and deliberate.

The money from the mausoleum! The two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Don t you dare try to keep it for yourself!

It s my money, I stated simply.

*Your* money? he exploded. Don t you get it, Sloane? Your money *is* this family s money! It s how things work!

He slammed his hand on the coffee table, rattling the glasses.

I m telling you, Sloane, you have to hand over that money!

Hailey is getting married soon! Her fianc? s family is demanding a fifty-thousand-dollar down payment for a house. This money is exactly what she needs!

I nearly choked on my water.

Hailey was getting married?

This was the first I d heard of it.

I turned to look at her.

She was staring at the floor, a picture of meek compliance.

Married? I asked her directly. To who?

It s& it s Marco, she mumbled.

Marco.

Her boyfriend, the self-proclaimed Artistic Director at a high-end salon.

I d met him once.

He was slick and polished, reeking of overpowering cheap cologne, his words dripping with a practiced, superficial charm.

When did this happen?

Just& just a few days ago&

While our mother was dying in the ICU, she was busy negotiating the terms of her marriage.

You truly are a model daughter, aren t you?

The sarcasm in my voice was sharp enough to draw blood.

Sloane, don t say that& She finally looked up, her eyes red and pleading. Marco s family isn t well off. His parents said& they said they wouldn t approve the marriage unless we could come up with a fifty-thousand-dollar down payment&

So you decided to fund your new life with the money meant for our mother s grave?

I didn t! she cried, her voice rising in protest. It was Dad& Dad said&

I said it! my father bellowed, taking over. An older sister is supposed to help her younger sister. It s the natural order of things! You make all this money, what s fifty thousand dollars to you?

Are you just going to stand by and watch her lose her chance at happiness, let her become a laughingstock because she can t afford to get married?

I looked at the two of them.

One righteous and demanding, the other pitiful and weeping.

A perfectly rehearsed duet.

A wave of bitter amusement washed over me.

Fine, I said, the single word cutting through their tirade. You want the money?

Their eyes lit up in unison.

But, I added, letting the word hang in the air, I have one condition.

First, search for and download the Novellia app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "409845" to read the entire book.