Exposing the Charade of Deep Affection - Season 1 Episode 48

I recounted to my mother what happened at the Conner Group today.

She furrowed her brows fiercely and said, “Impossible, your father could never do such a thing, using a media company to launder money. What benefit would he gain from doing this? Besides, our family hasn’t had any large sums of money coming in this past year. Moreover, your father is fully committed to running the Conner Group well. How could he possibly make such a mistake and put the Conner Group in such a predicament?”

I understood my mother’s emotions and comforted her, saying, “Mom, I also believe in Dad. That’s why I made a promise to the shareholders. I will find out where the money went within a month and clear Dad’s name.”

She nodded, her gaze firm, “Yes, we must find out, we absolutely must.”

I would naturally investigate my father’s affairs, but the most important thing right now was to handle my father’s funeral.

The next day, my mother and I went to the funeral home, as it’s not good to leave a body unattended for too long.

In the funeral home, my father’s body had already been placed in a paper coffin, covered with many yellow and white chrysanthemums. His face was very calm, as if he was sleeping. Perhaps this is what each of us looks like after death, peaceful and serene.

“Family members, please mourn respectfully and wait in the rest room next door.”

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After taking one last look at our father, the staff ushered us into the next room to wait, preparing to push him into the cremation furnace. The moment we saw our father being pushed in, our mother couldn’t control her emotions any longer. She started shaking uncontrollably, clutching me tightly and pleading, “Tabatha, can we not cremate your father, please? He couldn’t bear the pain when he was alive, how could he bear it now if we burn him?”

My heart felt as if it was tightly gripped by a large hand, causing so much pain that I could hardly breathe. Yet, I was fully aware that my mother had already broken down emotionally. If I didn’t stay clear- headed, there would be no one to handle my father’s affairs.

I held my mother, patting her shoulder to soothe her, “Mom, it won’t hurt. I asked just now, they said it won’t hurt. Dad will only be in there for a little while and then he’ll come out, it won’t hurt.”

Mother choked up, her voice fragile, “Did it really not hurt? Such a high temperature, he…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

I took a deep breath, soothing her, “It really doesn’t hurt, it’s just because of the high temperature, so daddy can’t feel the pain, it will be fine in a moment.”

My mother felt sorry for my father, and so did I. I dared not think about whether he was afraid of pain. Some things, once thought about, would bring a surge of emotions, and I would break down just like my

mother.

Forty minutes later, my father’s ashes came out. When I was very young, I always thought that the ashes people talked about were literally a pile of ash.

It was only when I saw my father’s ashes being brought out that I realized that cremation does not turn a person’s bones into ashes. My father’s skull and limbs were still clearly present, and even the other

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parts of his body were not ashes, but fragments of bone.

A long-term illness had turned my father’s bones a dark, yellowish hue, unlike others whose bones were white.

In the funeral parlor, my mother and I carefully placed my father’s bones into the urn, piece by piece. Holding my father’s skull, my mother stared at the darkened lines, her hands trembling uncontrollably. Choking back tears, she said, “Tabatha, can you imagine how much pain he must have been in?”

couldn’t answer, I fell silent.

When Ashley arrived, my mother and I had already prepared to take my father to the cemetery. She was dressed in black, her face made up, her red lips so sharp they hurt the eyes.

Seeing her come, the mother looked at her coldly, without uttering a word.

I held my father’s urn, casting an indifferent glance at Walter who was standing not far behind her. He walked towards us, his tall and slender figure standing in front of me, reaching out to take my father’s urn.

I dodged, bypassed him and got directly into the car. Cory was the one driving. Seeing the two latecomers, he furrowed his brows but didn’t say anything and started the car.

The cemetery was filled with many people, most of whom were friends and relatives my father knew when he was alive. They were here to see my father off on his final journey.

The deceased was buried, with numerous customs to follow. My mother and I knelt in front of the grave, burning paper money, unsure if my father could receive it.

When Walter squatted beside me, I was taken aback for a moment,

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then coldly snatched the paper money he was preparing to burn, and said indifferently, “You’re not qualified to burn this for my dad.”

He pursed his lips, his brows furrowed, but just a moment later, he got up and walked over to help Cory erect the tombstone.

I didn’t want him to touch anything related to my father. I stood up, trying to make him leave, but as soon as I got up, I felt dizzy and almost fell down.

He was the first to steady me, his voice low and gentle, “Are you okay?”

pushed him away, suppressing my anger, and said, “Mr. Hinton, I would appreciate it if you could take Ashley and leave.”

He looked at me, his dark eyes brooding and suppressed, “Tabatha, I am your husband.”

“Husband?” I sneered, pointing at Ashley who was hypocritically kneeling in front of my father’s grave, “A person who led my own sister to anger my father to death, are you worthy?”