They hated her. They hated the framed photos that haunted the hallways, and the forgotten items of hers that crop up when they aren't looking, and the constant reminders that they're so much like her.
Or: Grief, longing, and the dread of living under someone else's shadow.
“She meant… so much to me.”
“I know.”
Vida had heard as much millions of times by then. It was routine—down to their father crying in their arms on his bed as they just sat there, unmoving, uncertain; the icon of stoicism that they needed to be for the both of them, because if it wasn't them, who else would it be?
“I could've—I could've saved her. She didn't—”
“Dad, no,” they hushed, as quiet and sweet as they could manage despite their increasing annoyance, “It's not your fault.”
It truly wasn't. They hated the self loathing he held, the insistence he was capable of doing more, and all the more hated their mother for leaving the two of them alone, because it wasn't fair. They shouldn't have to be taking their father's shaking hands in theirs, to be whispering soothing words as he slurred over his declarations of blame. They did it anyway, because they loved him, more than heaven and earth and certainly more than she ever did if they were still standing while she was dead.
“It is,” he insisted, voice straining as he spoke, “I should've… should've done more to stop her, fuck, I—”
He broke into sobs again, and all they could do was hold him. They held back their own tears—from feeling powerless, hopeless, frustrated that all they could do was offer sympathetic stock phrases and offer what physical comfort they could. They were supposed to make him feel better, they were supposed to be the one to fix things, but they never could. Not with this.
And the yearned nothing more to say the truth—that their mother must've been a heartless bitch to subject him to something so cruel because how selfish could someone be to take their own life when they had a goddamn family—a husband who'd done nothing wrong and a child who would never even get to know her. She wasn't someone worth his tears because if she loved him, really, truly, she would've stayed.
But they don't. Because that's not what the narrative is. She's the saint, the woman that was too good for this cruel world. The definition of purity, the love of his life, the special someone that had never, in her life, done anything wrong and was somehow deserving of over a decade's worth of pity. They don't get it. They don't understand why he's not angry. But they're not supposed to. They did as always, frowned, offered empty reassurances, because nothing else could be done. She was 10 feet under and no misplaced sympathy was bringing her back.
“Please—promise, promise you won't leave me.”
He looked at them with the kind of desperation they were only granted in moments such as that night. They despised having to go through the motions as though they hadn't so many times before—as if between the last time and that moment (4 entire days, if one could believe it), their mind had miraculously changed.
But it's not about them. It's never about them. So they play along.
“I'm not going anywhere, I promise.”
They know their father needs reassurance more than ever because he's afraid, but it doesn't make it sting any less—that he still can't trust them, that he still fears that they'd be gone in an instant. They wouldn't—couldn't put him through that same heartache again. They were better than that, they loved him more than that.
The “I love you” he whispered was a small consolation as he urged them to lay with him. There was a brief hesitation in their grasp of his body, a feeling of repulsion that burrowed beneath their skin. But his sad eyes were enough to persuade them; the normalcy that always felt just a little too wrong. His shallow breaths stabilized, and eventually, content in his security, certain of their stability, he fell asleep. It had to mean something that he at least trusted them enough for that. It had to, because what else would they be doing it all for if not for the chance for him to understand that they would be all he needed? That they would bend and mold every inch of themself if it meant his happiness, that they would carve out their own skin, gouge their own eyes, anything, anything to ensure his peace of mind.
He was the axis that their every thought orbited, and as selfish as it was, they wished they were the same for him. Even laid against him, arm in arm, they were aware that his yearning for their mother was going to outweigh anything they could offer him. It wasn't that he loved them any less, they knew that wasn't the case—but she was still the impossible gold standard, inhuman in the stories he tells, perfect and good and nothing they could ever truly be—and she didn't even have to try.
They hated her. They hated the framed photos that haunted the hallways, and the forgotten items of hers that crop up when they aren't looking, and the constant reminders that they're so much like her. They didn't want to be anything like the woman that could abandon her own family so easily because she couldn't even get treated for stupid, easily curable depression.
And maybe, just maybe, if they perform just as they should, if they say the right words and do the right things, provide the comfort he needed all the while ensuring he never had to worry about maintaining the house or anything of that nature—their father would finally understand that they were better than she ever could've been.