"Kelly, you need to take this call. It's urgent... about your mom... She's gone. Heart attack."
I hurriedly purchased a ticket for the earliest overnight train and found myself standing for a grueling 14 hours.
The details of enduring that lengthy ride blur together—the narrow aisle cramped with passengers, the air thick with the scent of various foods, the low murmur of others sleeping soundly, all while I stared out at the pitch-black sky, silently urging the train to speed up even more.
When we finally arrived, my legs were so numb that I bolted home without a moment's hesitation.
By the time I reached, I was too late—the hospital had already handled everything.
"Had to go off to study, huh? Missed seeing your mom one last time," Dad said, his voice thick with grief.
The following day, I helped Dad host the wake. I watched as people gorged themselves, clinking glasses, all smiles.
Some were Mom's kin, others her old buddies.
Eventually, Dad nudged me to mingle. "Come on, help me out here."
"I'm not playing host to these folks. They're your guests," I retorted.
"When will you ever grow up?" he sighed.
Why should I entertain these people? They were here for the spread, not to mourn.