She heard her name once.
Nothing.
She heard it again.
Still nothing.
The third time… it wasn’t her name.
Chapter 1- Still Here
The house was alive with warmth. Laughter threaded through its corners, sunlight spilled across the floor, and little Royce toddled close to his great aunt Matilda’s legs with a joy only toddlers know. His presence filled the space with a lightness that softened even the sharpest edges of Matilda’s thoughts. She thought about his parents, off on their great adventure. One last trip before they settled down to full time parenting. She thought about the times they had put it off, the last time being when they discovered they were going to be parents. She didn’t grudge them this last hoorah, to the contrary, she loved looking after Royce. She had formed a special bond with him. She’d miss that when they got back.
“Hey sis, are we going to eat today or what?” her brother’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Ernest, I swear if eating were an Olympic event you’d win before the other contestants reached their places.” She called back. She turned to see Estelle, his wife setting the table.
“Ernest, if you can’t be civil, you can go back home.” scolded Estelle.
Matilda smiled at that. She remembered how it was Estelle that had insisted they buy the house next door when they were planning their wedding. ‘You need to moved out of the family home Ernest, stand on your own two feet’ she’d said. She was the only one he didn’t argue with. She was good for him.
It was Sunday — a family day. No birthdays, no decorations, no grand occasion. Just food, warmth, and the comfort of familiar company. Estelle had brought a sweet bread, still warm in its dish. She hummed old tunes as she set the table, lavender trousers swishing with each step. Ernest dropped into the armchair by the window with his usual critique — something about the broth being oversalted. Matilda had barely heard him. She was watching Royce again, as he attempted to stack wooden blocks higher than his head. He didn’t look up when Jameson arrived, but his grin widened.
Jameson’s voice filled the room easily, casual and kind.
“Hi everyone, sorry I’m late.” He handed Matilda a paper bag with some half-made dessert he swore she’d like, then helped Estelle move a stack of books off a chair so he could sit. He didn’t ask questions. He never did. He just showed up.
“Jameson” called Ernest, “I need to come over to your office. There are some papers I need you to take a look at.”
“Okay.” Said Jameson, then quietly “A solicitor’s work is never done.”
The afternoon hummed along quietly, like the kind of day no one would remember.
Then came the knock.
Or maybe it was the silence that followed it that stayed with them most.
“I’ll get it then.” Called Matilda. The messenger stepped inside. The words hadn’t yet formed, but she knew. She felt it deep and sudden. Time stretched. Around her, the air changed. Ernest’s brow furrowed. Estelle went still. Matilda shot a look at Royce who’d paused in his game, his small head tilting at the sudden shift in tone.
The news fell: Nathaniel. Grace. Gone.
The warmth in the house crumbled. Matilda gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Her breath lodged in her throat. But how? The messenger had no answer. That thought clung to her in the days that followed. She didn’t cry. She looked at Royce — wide-eyed, watchful, waiting for someone to explain what was no longer explainable.
The hours after blurred. Ernest had stopped eating and vanished into the quiet of his son and daughter-in-law’s room, only reappearing to get his coat.
Estelle busied herself in the kitchen. Matilda held on to Royce and stared into space. She hardly acknowledged when they left, or when Jameson took him from her and put him to bed. Jameson stayed, seeing everyone out. Eventually, even he gave a parting squeeze of Matilda’s shoulder and stepped into the cold.
They were gone. All of them. The silence returned.
Matilda didn’t sleep. She cleaned — surfaces that didn’t need cleaning, corners already swept. She checked on Royce, once to move the toy from under his cheek, and again to tuck him in tighter,. His room was quiet. Still. She tried sitting on the porch in her rocking chair, a book in her lap, but she didn’t read a word. The stars above seemed to blink too brightly. She stared until the cold bit her skin, then returned inside.
She moved like someone on the edge of disappearing. Picking things up, putting them down. Straightening, wiping, folding. She dozed in odd corners of the house — curled up on the sofa, half-sitting at the kitchen table, once even on the floor beside the laundry basket. She didn’t feel tired. She didn’t feel awake either.
Near Royce’s room, she finally sat still. A chair just outside his door. She didn’t mean to fall asleep there, but it was the only place that felt anchored. When she stirred, the light had shifted. Morning.
She rose to her feet and descended to the kitchen.
Then the sink betrayed her.
A groan. A spray. Ice-cold water splashed her sleeves, soaking through before she could jerk away. For a moment, it broke her open. But grief doesn’t pause for plumbing. She knelt, hands trembling, and fixed it — poorly but determined. She heard a soft thud.
She turned her head. Royce was up. She made her way back upstairs to his door. He toddled with single-minded determination, hair tousled, his expression serious. He made his way straight to the potty with the weight of a king on a mission. She watched from a respectful distance, hovering — not too close, not interfering. Just proud.
He finished and looked up, triumphant, but already moving on. Heading to the toy box at the end of the hall. She turned away to give him space and returned to the kitchen, resumed her rhythm. He’d be hungry soon. She moved through the kitchen, reaching for the pan, the bowl, the carton.
Behind her, Royce called out — a soft cry that cracked into something more desperate. He was already on the stairs. Already near.
She turned. He was there — arms lifted, eyes full.
Not tantrum. Not demand. Just need.
Matilda didn’t hesitate. Two strides and he was in her arms, his small body curling into her chest. She closed her eyes, exhaling into his hair.
Grief fell back, the tears fell.
And something quieter whispered:
We’re still here.
We’re still together.
Chapter 2 – Truth Overcomes
The household did not wait politely for grief to pass. It moved on. Demanded things. Things like leaking taps and broken pipes and hungry toddlers who didn’t understand that the world had cracked open. Royce still needed feeding. Floors still needed sweeping. And Matilda, though bruised from the loss that had gutted her, moved forward because there was no other choice.
The sink gave out again. A gurgle, a spray, and suddenly she was soaked. Cold water, wild pressure, and a stubborn pipe that refused to behave. She tried to patch it — tools in the wrong places, towel under her knees, muttered words she’d never say in Royce’s hearing. Eventually, she gave up and called for help.
The repairman arrived with all the smugness of someone who expected to be thanked just for showing up. Matilda, patient but stretched thin, found herself biting her tongue. He glanced at the wrench in her hand and smirked. “Plumbing not really your thing, huh?”
She fixed him with a stare. “Grief isn’t either, but I’m getting pretty good at surviving it.”
To his credit, he fell quiet after that.
The rest of the day moved slowly. She put Royce down for his nap. When she stood, her eyes caught in the mirror.
Her reflection stared back — red-rimmed, hollowed, standing.
She didn’t flinch. She stepped closer.
“You can do this,” she said. Not a whisper. A command. “You have to. For him.”
Matilda’s first attempt at cooking the Winterfest grand meal ended in disaster. A flash of flame. Smoke. The shriek of the fire alarm and Royce’s frightened cry echoing down the hallway. Matilda, frantic but focused, grabbed the extinguisher and fought it off herself. No firemen. No heroes. Just her, sleeves singed and spirit stubborn.
The cooker was ruined. She stood over its charred remains with shaking hands, heart thudding against her ribs. Royce clung to her leg, face buried.
She replaced it that same day. It cost more than she wanted to admit, but she couldn’t not have a cooker. Not with Royce depending on her.
And something shifted.
That night, she sat in her room, fingers curled around the edge of the bed, and said aloud what she hadn’t dared to before:
“I have to get over it. The fear. The hating it.”
The room didn’t answer.
But she did.
“Matilda…”
A whisper. Not in her ears, but in her chest.
“Matilda…”
She froze.
“…Tilly.”
And just like that… everything changes.
👉 Continue the story
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