The rain hadn’t stopped since morning. It was as if the sky itself was mourning with me. I stood there, my black umbrella trembling in the wind, watching as my mother’s coffin disappeared beneath the wet soil. Everyone cried except my father. He wasn’t there. He was in Hawaii, smiling beside his new mistress, their champagne glasses raised as if celebrating my mother’s death. When the last shovel of dirt hit the coffin, I whispered goodbye through clenched teeth.
That night, lightning tore across the Portland sky as I sat alone in my apartment, staring at old photos of her. Then my phone buzzed. It was from her number—my mother’s. The message said, «I’m not dead. Come to the cemetery. Now.»
My throat closed, and my hands went cold. I grabbed my car keys, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know if I was driving toward a miracle or madness.
My name is Grace Miller, and until a week ago, I thought my life was normal. I had a small apartment overlooking the Willamette River, a job as a freelance designer, and a mother who called every Sunday to remind me to eat breakfast. I used to roll my eyes at her texts.
«Take your vitamins, sweetheart. Don’t skip dinner again.» I never thought I’d miss them.
The day she died started like any other. I was finishing a client project when an unknown number appeared on my phone. I almost ignored it, but something, some strange instinct, made me answer.
«Is this Miss Grace Miller?» The woman’s voice trembled. «I’m calling from Portland General Hospital.» She hesitated. «I’m—I’m so sorry. Your mother passed away this morning. Sudden cardiac arrest.»
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, and the colors drained away.
«No,» I whispered, shaking my head. «You’ve got the wrong person. My mom’s fine. She was painting this morning.»
«I’m sorry,» the nurse repeated softly. The words rang in my ears long after she hung up.
I remember standing by the window, watching raindrops trace lines down the glass, my reflection ghostly pale. My mother—my best friend, my anchor—was gone. And yet, deep inside, something didn’t add up.
She had no heart problems. She exercised, laughed easily, and ate healthily. How could she just… stop living? When I called my father, his tone was almost bored.
«It’s true,» he said flatly. «Evelyn’s gone. The doctor said it was quick.»
«That’s it?» I snapped, my voice breaking. «That’s all you have to say?»
He sighed. «Grace, she’s dead. Cry if you need to, but don’t be dramatic. I’ll handle the paperwork.» Then he hung up.
That was the moment my grief turned to fire. Something inside me whispered that my father wasn’t mourning; he was relieved. And that made me terrified to know why.
Three days later, the rain still hadn’t stopped. It was as if the city itself refused to move on. The cemetery smelled of wet soil and lilies. People in black stood under umbrellas, murmuring condolences that barely reached my ears.
I couldn’t look away from the coffin. My mother’s name, Evelyn Grace Miller, was engraved in gold. My throat burned. «You didn’t deserve this,» I whispered.
Behind me, relatives whispered too. «Where’s Richard? Her husband didn’t even come? Disgraceful.» I clenched my fists. My father had texted me the night before: «Busy with business overseas. Handle the funeral.» No apologies, no shame, just business.
When the priest began to pray, I felt my legs tremble. My cousin’s little girl, Ava, tugged my sleeve. «Aunt Grace,» she whispered, «if Grandma’s in heaven, can she see us?»
I knelt down, my voice breaking. «Yes, baby. She can see us. She’s watching right now.»
As the coffin lowered, a cold gust swept through, snapping my umbrella inside out. The priest’s words blurred into the rhythm of falling rain. Every drop felt like a heartbeat I couldn’t reach anymore.
When it was over, everyone left—everyone except me. I stayed, staring at the freshly turned soil until my knees sank into the mud. «Mom,» I whispered, «if there’s any justice in this world, he’ll pay for what he’s done to you. I promise.» Lightning flashed far in the distance, a white scar across the dark sky. I took it as an answer.
That night, I drove home soaked and hollow. I showered, changed into one of her old sweaters, and sat in the dark, scrolling aimlessly through my father’s social media. That’s when I saw his new post: a photo of him on a sunny beach, arm around a young woman with perfect hair. The caption read, «New Beginnings.»
My heart stopped. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone. While I buried my mother in the rain, my father was smiling under a tropical sky. Something inside me broke, and something darker began to wake.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the apartment felt like a whisper from somewhere else. The storm outside howled through the cracks in my windows, and I kept seeing my mother’s face the way she looked in the coffin: still and peaceful. Too peaceful.
I tried to distract myself, scrolling through photos on my phone: Mom holding her paintbrush, laughing in the garden. Mom teaching me how to bake apple pie. Mom hugging me after my first breakup. Every memory hit like a blade.
Then my phone buzzed. At first, I ignored it, assuming it was a condolence message from a friend. But then I saw the name on the screen: Mom. I froze, the blood draining from my face. It was her number, the one I couldn’t bring myself to delete.
My heart stuttered as I opened the message. «I’m not dead. Come to the cemetery. Now.»
For a long moment, I just stared. My brain tried to find logic: a hack, a wrong number, a cruel prank. But my body had already decided. I grabbed my coat and car keys and ran.
The rain outside felt sharper, colder, almost intentional. My windshield wipers fought the downpour as I drove toward the cemetery, headlights slicing through sheets of water. Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, but I couldn’t. My mother’s voice was in my head: Trust your heart, Grace. Even when your mind is afraid.
When I reached the gates, the place was drenched in fog. The lamps flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the gravestones. I parked, stepped out, and the wind immediately stole my breath.
«Mom?» I called out, my voice trembling.
Silence. Just the sound of rain on metal and stone. Then, from the far end near the willow trees, a faint shape moved—a small, hunched figure wrapped in a soaked coat.
«Mom?» My flashlight shook in my hand as I raised it. The beam caught her face: pale, fragile, but alive. Her eyes, those familiar hazel eyes, filled with tears.
«Grace,» she whispered.
My world shattered. The flashlight fell, landing in the mud with a dull thud. I stumbled forward, my heart pounding in disbelief. «Mom? How… how are you alive?»
