A Funeral, a Wig, and a Secret

🔴 HE TOLD ME TO CHOOSE A WIG FOR HIS MOTHER’S FUNERAL – I PANICKED

I slammed the car door, the humid July air thick and heavy as I ran inside.

“Which one, Sarah? Black or silver?” he called from the living room, surrounded by styrofoam heads. Why did he have so many? I could smell his nervous sweat, metallic and acrid. “Mom would’ve liked your opinion,” he added, his voice cracking.

Everything felt wrong. This rushed funeral, the sudden “heart attack,” the sheer volume of synthetic hair. I tripped over a box labeled “Summer ‘98,” tearing it open. Inside, faded Polaroids: Mark, my Mark, but younger, kissing a woman who looked exactly like… his mother?

Then he was behind me, grabbing my wrist, his grip tight. “Don’t touch those,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Those are private.”

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I yanked my arm away, stumbling back. “What’s going on, Mark?” The question felt hollow, a desperate echo in the suffocating house.

He ignored me, his gaze darting between me and the Polaroids. He began shoving the photos back into the box, his movements jerky and frantic. “It’s… it’s complicated. Look, the funeral is tomorrow. Just choose the wig.”

I needed answers, not a hairpiece. “You said she had a heart attack. Did she?”

He flinched. “Yes. Of course.” His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Now, the wig…” He gestured at the styrofoam heads, a manic grin plastered on his face.

Something in me snapped. I wasn’t going to play this game. I reached for the phone, intending to call his sister, maybe the police. But before I could dial, he lunged.

He didn’t attack physically, but grabbed the phone from my hand. “You don’t understand,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “She… she’s been ill for a while. The stress… it accelerated things.”

He seemed to be losing control. “Just… just pick one. Please, Sarah. For me.”

The weight of the day, the pressure of the situation, everything was building, pushing me towards a breaking point. I looked at the wigs, the black one sleek and severe, the silver one softer, almost maternal. I saw a reflection in his eyes… panic, fear, and something else. A strange kind of love. It was a love I knew I could relate to.

Hesitantly, I reached for the black wig. “The black one,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “She would have wanted to look her best.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders finally relaxing. He seemed to calm a little.

We drove to the funeral home. The small room was packed. As the service began, Mark stood at the podium and began his speech. “My mother was a wonderful woman,” he started, his voice cracking at the end. “She was always there for me.”

The black wig. A woman who had been in Mark’s life for a long time, possibly his whole life, was finally going to rest. When he finished his speech, he went and touched the casket, and gave one last look to his mother. I looked at Mark, and I could swear that the eyes I saw in his mother’s casket were the eyes of Mark. His own eyes. He winked at me, and I knew. I was in the middle of something that I could never escape.

Later, at the reception, I saw Mark’s sister arrive, and she approached him, and looked at me and said “How did my mother like the wig?”. I answered.

“She looked wonderful.”