The whole thing, from beginning to end, is a horrible fucking tragedy, the miserable and lonely end of a withered old woman traumatized again and again and again until she was twisted into something of the same ilk as those who victimized her, all of whom were equally wronged and pitiful and warped. Wish though I may that I couldn't, I can see all of it laid out clearly before me, a dense web of causality stitching together abuse and pain and neglect that begins with her and reaches its bloody tendrils outward to ensnare the generations that follow. Despite its effects on the people I love and me being glaringly obvious, all of it is whitewashed, sanded down and diluted by ceremony and by those not subject or witness to it, the latest entry in a long procession of well-meaning acts of gaslighting that rubs salt in my and my family's wounds.
But if I say anything, everyone would be hurt, and things would become that much harder for us all.
I stay silent.
Tensions are running terribly high. No one's been able to get a decent night's sleep all week, and with how tight and hurried and pressured our schedule is, we can hardly spare a single moment to stand still and breathe, let alone begin to process this tangled, complex mess of grief. My family is at each others' throats, muttering darkly to themselves and snapping at the slightest irritation or provocation or annoyance, loudly arguing for hours on end over minor disagreements, sharp rebukes inviting personal attacks in turn. The noise and pettiness and hypocrisy undermines my patience until I'm all but furious, and my smoldering ill temper inflames my touch aversion and makes the already-uncomfortable close quarters unbearable.
But if I say anything, everyone would be hurt, and things would become that much harder for us all.
I stay silent.
There's a mountain of trash and papers and possessions to sort through. I move as quickly as I can carrying boxes in and out of the room where she had laid deceased for days before being found, the lingering unutterable stench of death forcing its way into my lungs as I go. Buried beneath the endless piles of newspapers and bills and pharmacy receipts is the occasional item of interest, sometimes a deed or a misplaced wad of cash. I scan idly over an old letter and am greeted with a starkly atrocious secret that leaves me thunderstruck, a missing piece in my mental puzzle that throws the truly awful tragedy of the situation into blinding, terrible relief.
But if I say anything, everyone would be hurt, and things would become that much harder for us all.
I stay silent.