“I didn’t think you’d let me in,” Rochelle said, taking a seat next to him. He looked at her with a sneer, as if she’d walked in wearing a dress made of cockroaches. Then he looked forward, at the stage. His heart was pumping hard, furious. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “It’s not like you don’t have history.” He snapped his head to her. “Excuse me?” “Lila’s wedding? You humiliated me.” “Oh fuck off, Chelle.” Lila, his baby-girl, his only child, got married two years before to the love of her life, Gaelan Pieterson. He’d walked her down the aisle, the proud dad, and Rochelle had arrived halfway through the ceremony on unsteady legs and slurring her words. He’d asked for her to be removed, and one of his cousins or uncles had dragged Rochelle away, but not before Lila caught sight of her mum causing a scene. Before that, they hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. When Lila turned 13, he had applied for a divorce and sole custody of his daughter—he was granted both. And now here she was, for Lila’s big show, and once again the room was filling with family members and distant friends. He’d thought about welcoming people in at the door, but for what reason? Most were coming to gawk; they didn’t care about Lila. His family was like that sometimes: they’d show up to events a few times a year—Christmases, birthdays, christenings—but then you’d never hear from them again, not until somebody had a baby or graduated and everyone would chip in for a present. “I’m not gonna do anything,” Rochelle said now, leaning in close. Her breath smelled of wine and Doritos. “I promise you, I’ve changed. I’ve had counselling.” “I don’t care.” “I’m not the woman you knew.” “If you say so.” He clenched his fist. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not on Lila’s day. But he found it hard to hold in his anger around Rochelle. This woman who, once, when he was late home from work, had thrown boiling water over his feet, in front of Lila, causing second degree burns from his ankles to his toes. This woman who had slapped Lila across the face and called her a slut when she was 12 just because she’d texted a smiley face to a boy in her class. This woman who, when sober, was full of warmth and affection, but who could flip to darkness in the space of three drinks. “I came to apologise,” she said. “To you—and to Lila.” “She don’t want it.” “Come on—” “When’s the last time you saw her?” She dipped her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Exactly. You were never part of her life.” “Because of you—because you took her from me.” “We’re not doing this here. Not on Lila’s day, no way.” “But—” “I said be quiet.” The seats around him were filling up fast. It was almost time for the show. In a while he had to get on stage and speak and he didn’t know what he’d say. The thought of speaking publicly, even in front of family and friends, locked him up tight. On Lila’s wedding day, he’d given a brief speech—“I hope the couple are happy for many years. Welcome to the family, Gaelan. I love you guys.”—and then he’d slipped into the shadows. He couldn’t do that today. It wouldn’t be right to short-change Lila. “I haven’t had a drink since I found out,” she said, but the smell of wine on her breath said otherwise. “I’ve been sober almost two weeks now, I swear.” “Good for you. Why don’t you take a seat elsewhere?” “Stop punishing me. I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? he wanted to ask. Sorry for the time she’d smashed a vase into his face during an argument? He was partially deaf in his right ear because of it. Or sorry for the time she pushed Lila into a table when she was 7 or 8—over what? he couldn’t remember—and his baby-girl split her lip? Or sorry for all the times she’d leave the house in the middle of the night and return the next morning smelling of tequila and sex? She couldn’t apologise for all of it. She was a poison who’d been in their blood for too long. He was thankful that Lila, after today, would never have to see her again. “Just be respectful and quiet,” he said, “and we’ll be okay.” “I will. I even brought tissues in case I need to cry.” “I didn’t ask.” The seats filled up and someone closed the back doors. Murmurs vibrated through the room, and he heard crying and snivelling in places. He stood up, smoothed down his tie and slowly made his way to the podium, waving hi to Lila on the way. On stage, he could see her perfectly down to his right. Lila lay elegantly in her polished mahogany coffin—wearing her favourite red cocktail dress, as per her request, with her arms folded across her chest. Her brunette hair framed her face; and the coroner, or whoever, had rouged her cheeks with blusher. She seemed peaceful; finally free from her demons. Her wrists were turned inwards so you couldn’t see the cuts. He waited for everyone to quieten down. There would be no priest doing this service. This was Lila’s show. She’d written her requests in her final note; the one she’d left by her bed before she did what she did. She’d asked him to invite Rochelle too. And she’d asked him to take charge. And she’d apologised to him. “I miss you so much, Lila,” he mumbled now. And then, looking out at Rochelle in the crowd, the poison who no doubt caused this, he thought, I let you down, Lila. I’m sorry. And that’s when, for the first time since he heard about Lila’s death, the tears came.