I walked back into the burial hall. Cynthia was at my back, hauling all kinds of insults at me. Her voice was loud, sharp, cutting through the quiet, scraping at my nerves. Every word burned, every syllable pierced my chest like needles.
I looked at her, smiled, held my head up, and continued walking as she barked all kinds of insults at me. I could hear her clearly:
"I warned Mark not to marry you! You're bad news!"
"I wonder why he loves you so much!"
"I hate you, Alexa!" she kept screaming, voice cracking with anger and desperation.
I smiled at her—the type of smile that would wreck your insides, calm and cold but full of fire. I wanted her to feel my venom, every ounce of it. I wanted her to taste the quiet rage simmering inside me, the grief, the heartbreak, the fire that refused to die.
She stood still for a moment, like she realized I wouldn't react. Then she placed her hands on her head and gently slid down the restroom floor. Finally. I rolled my eyes, annoyed that it even took her this long.
I walked into the burial hall. My legs felt heavy, my chest tight, heart pounding. His parents were there now—Mark's father, the only person who truly supported me at least, and my mother-in-law, who hated my guts like it was her life's purpose.
I needed one more moment with my husband.
"I need one more moment with my husband," I said, voice low, trying to keep it steady even though my chest burned and my stomach twisted.
"Your husband?" my mother-in-law snapped, eyes sharp, lips pressed together like she was about to spit fire. "You're the reason he is dead now!"
Her words hit me like a slap I hadn't seen coming. My chest tightened, lungs burning, but I didn't fall. I didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me weak. My hands trembled slightly, but I held myself upright, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat.
Her husband nudged me gently, a hand on my shoulder. "Try to understand, Alexa," he said softly, voice calm, steady. He didn't judge me. He didn't yell. He just wanted me to survive this.
I smiled and nodded at him. Even if she doubts it, I do understand her. I understood grief. I understood anger. I understood loss. But I also understood control, survival, strength.
And then… the press.
They were everywhere, a sea of cameras, microphones, and flashing lights. Questions flying at me like bullets.
"Come on, Mrs. Alexa Walton! How do you feel now that your husband, Mr. Walton, is gone?"
"Alexa! Did you see this coming?"
"So sad… what will you do now?"
My heart hammered in my chest. My palms were sweating. My stomach churned. My legs felt heavy. I wanted to shrink into myself, hide, but I didn't. I couldn't. I swallowed hard and tried to breathe through it. Focus. One step at a time.
My mother-in-law walked in front of them, bloodshot eyes glaring like a predator. She didn't blink. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her presence radiated fury and control. She was ready to give a response, to take over the story, to control the narrative herself.
I could feel her energy, sharp and dangerous, slicing through the air. Everyone around her froze slightly, sensing the storm she carried. I could feel the heat in my chest rise again, the rage I'd been holding like a shield.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to collapse onto the coffin again, to let the grief swallow me whole. But I didn't. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of all those cameras, microphones, whispers, judgmental eyes.
I pressed my hands to my stomach, feeling the tight knot of grief and fury, my chest aching. Tears threatened to fall, but I refused to let them. Not here. Not to them.
Cynthia was still behind me, but now quiet. Her shoulders slumped slightly, maybe realizing that I wouldn't crumble under her screaming. That small victory of mine made my lips curl into a faint, cold smile.
Mark's father was beside me, calm, steady, supportive. His hand rested lightly on mine, giving me the strength I didn't think I had left. His presence reminded me that I wasn't completely alone. That at least someone knew the real me, someone who had stood by me in quiet support while the world judged me.
The flash of cameras, the scribbling of pens, the whispers in the room—it all blurred together. My heart thudded loudly. I could feel the adrenaline mix with grief, making my chest burn. My hands shook slightly, and I clenched my bag to steady myself.
I exhaled slowly, deeply, letting the air fill my lungs. I could feel every ounce of strength I had left. I refused to break, to crumble, to let the world see me weak.
And then I saw my mother-in-law step fully in front of the press. Bloodshot eyes blazing. Lips tight, ready to speak. She pushed forward with calculated force, like she was taking the story into her hands, ready to give her version of events.
All at once, the room seemed to pause. Cameras focused. Microphones angled. Reporters leaned forward. The tension was thick, suffocating. Every eye on her, every question in the air waiting for her response.
I could feel my heart hammering even harder. Rage, grief, fury, and fear tangled together inside me like fire. My stomach twisted. My chest burned. My hands shook. But my face stayed calm, my head held high, my mind sharp.
The moment stretched, heavy, long, unbroken. The world was waiting. Waiting for the words that would change everything.
And I knew… whatever she said next, whatever story she told, it wouldn't stop me. It couldn't.
Because Mark was gone. And I was still standing.