Georgina Gee Apr 2026

A gasp rippled through the pews. Her oldest aunt, Sarah, looked up, eyes wide with indignation. "Georgina, this isn't the time—"

"I’ve listened to the eulogies," Georgina began, her voice low but echoing with an authority that made the room go still. "I’ve heard you talk about a sister you claim to have loved. But I was the one holding her hand while she was shaking from the chemo. I was the one you blocked when she asked for help."

She looked down at the mahogany casket—her mother’s final resting place—and then at the row of aunts sitting in the front pew. They were dabbing their eyes with lace handkerchiefs, whispering about "what a saint" her mother had been and how they had "always been there" for her.

Georgina felt a cold, familiar fire ignite in her chest. For years, she had watched these same women ignore her mother’s phone calls when the bills piled up. She remembered the long nights spent working three jobs while her "supportive" family was too busy to visit a hospital room.