God must take holidays or maybe he has too much on his plate, so much so that He forgets to answer. Lord, help me get through this day.

 My late husband’s relatives side-eyed me as if I had anything to do with what happened to him. It was a wrong place, wrong time situation, really. Two men had it out for each other, and my husband got caught in the crossfire. A bullet that was meant for one had been intercepted by him and -well- the rest is history.

Honestly, if he hadn’t written a will, I would’ve said good riddance. But he did, and his sisters refused to pay for the funeral with his money. We somehow managed to scrounge up the funds necessary to give him a proper send-off, even if the flower arrangements consisted of wilted flowers. Even if the priest was my brother who worked for Pablo Escobar. Even if my husband didn’t deserve it.

It was like one more fuck you from him. It was like he was hellbent on making me, no, the children suffer. Taking Marcella out of school and refusing to pay for his sons’ medical expenses was bad enough, but he wouldn’t let us even buy groceries. With my hands full with the boys, my sister had to support all of us solely through making clothing.

He did nothing for us.

It comforted me knowing that he was burning in hell.

As the funeral progressed, more and more people showed up. They gave their condolences to us and his sisters, and they paused a moment to pay their respects in front of his casket.

He was considered a Saint down here in Barrio Pablo Escobar. Every week, he’d bring the neighborhood’s children snacks from the Postabon factory where he worked. He gave the women roses on Mother’s Day. From an outsider’s perspective, he was a philanthropic man trying to make life easier for those being slighted by our government. They failed to notice that his efforts were shallow, and his actions were only to gain popularity within our community.

A couple hundred people showed up in the end.

Eventually, we all sat down as the priest, my brother Augusto, began to speak. I zoned out the entire time, coming back to my senses only to murmur a prayer with everyone else. Marcella calmed her younger brothers down from beside me.

Marcella was always tiny for her age. Twelve years old, but she stood stubbornly at 4’10. Her brown hair was braided into neat plaits with no help from me. Her gaze was usually stern, but not unkind. Today, however, her eyes were cold.

My brother wrapped up the prayers, and it was time for the eulogies. Once again, I heard people sing his praises and mourn the world’s loss. They moved the room with their eloquent (read: ostentatious) prose. One by one, they all gave their speeches, until no one else was standing.

Except for my little Marcella.

She nervously tugged at her braids before starting.

“My father has done many good things for the community. As we’ve heard, he’s helped people through their darkest moments. He wasn’t a good father, though, and he wasn’t a good husband to Aleida either. He fed children on the streets while we had to watch from our windows, starved of hunger and education and attention. As we lay him to rest, I ask you to lay your beliefs down with him. Sometimes, the nicest-looking person is the worst of all.” 

The crowd erupted into murmurs as Marcella walked back to her seat. I leaned over to her once she sat down.

“Why’d you do that?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “I didn’t like how Tia Rosa and Tia Camila were looking at you. He never did anything for his own family, why should I say nice things?” I shook my head.

“People are going to spread rumors, Marcella. About us, about you.”

“I don’t care. I just don’t want him to have a legacy. I want the memory of him to die with us,” everyone began filing out of the church, and we stood along with them. I grabbed two small hands, and Marcella grabbed another, “He doesn’t deserve to live in everyone’s minds forever. I hope that after today, no one will care about him.”

Marcella walked up to the wilted flower arrangement next to the casket. She plucked the ugliest flower from the bunch: a rose, wilted to the point where it was nearly black. It was shriveled almost beyond recognition, if not for the thorns protruding from the stem.

“I hope one day when someone asks about him, I can tell them nobody missed him, that he was nobody.”



She gingerly placed the rose on the casket, before turning around and walking out of the church. I took one more glance towards the casket, at the rose, and followed suit after Marcella.