Miggy's POV
Two days after Daddy's burial, I was alone in my condo when Carla called. Her voice cracked at the edges with worry. She said Mommy hadn't eaten anything since the funeral. Just drank. Cried until she passed out. Woke up and drank again.
That was all I needed to hear.
"Mom?" I called as I entered the house. It still smelled like Daddy's cologne somehow. Still too quiet.
Carla met me in the hallway, her expression heavy with fatigue and concern.
"She's in your dad's study, sir," she said softly. "Started drinking again the moment she woke up."
"Thank you," I nodded. "I'll handle it. Please get some rest."
I could see the relief in her eyes as she stepped aside. She must've been holding it together for Mom for days.
As I climbed the stairs, each step felt like a weight. I hadn't been back here since the wake. I wasn't sure I was ready. But I had to be.
Daddy's study door was ajar. I pushed it open.
Mommy sat slumped on the floor, her back against his desk, a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand, a glass tipped over near her feet. She looked so small—like someone had shrunk the powerful woman I'd grown up fearing and admiring in equal measure.
"Mom?" I said gently.
Her head turned, sluggishly. Her eyes were red, mascara smudged like old bruises.
"Miggy..." she whispered, as if surprised I was real.
She hadn't changed out of her nightgown. Her usually perfect hair was a mess, makeup streaked and faded. It was like grief had unraveled every piece of her identity.
"Mommy," I knelt beside her, keeping my voice steady. "Why are you drinking like this?"
"I can't do this," she sobbed. "I don't know how to start over without him."
I swallowed hard. I wanted to be strong, to carry her pain if I could. "We're both hurting. But we'll get through this—together."
She laughed bitterly; a sound too broken to last. "I didn't even get to talk to him. I was finishing a film sequence. I thought we had time. He promised we'd go away when I wrapped the shoot. I was going to surprise him… retire from directing. Spend time with him finally."
Her shoulders heaved as she wept. "But he left. Just like that. He lied to me."
I froze.
I wanted to say something—anything—but guilt pinned my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I hadn't told anyone about our fight. That our last conversation ended in shouting. That I might've pushed him too far.
Instead, I whispered, "Let's eat, Mom."
"I can't. I don't have the appetite. The dining room just reminds me he's not there."
"Okay," I said. "Then let's eat in the garden. Like a picnic. Under the stars. Just you and me."
She blinked, uncertain, but gave the smallest nod.
I called down to Carla and asked them to set something up in the gazebo. When I returned, I offered her a hand.
"Time to get dressed," I said with a smile. "We've got a dinner date."
She gave me a faint look of amusement. "You really are your father's son. Charming me into saying yes."
"You've got no choice. I'm your date now."
"It would've been better if it were your dad," she said quietly.
I kissed her cheek. "I know, Mom. But I'm here."
She let me help her up. She moved like someone walking through water—slow, unsteady. Still, she went to change. I waited downstairs, forcing myself to breathe.
I didn't feel like the strong one. But I had to be.
***
A few days passed. I went back to work, but my head wasn't in it. I was juggling too much—my grief, the guilt I couldn't shake, and now the fear that Mommy was slipping into something she wouldn't come back from.
She had stepped back from her latest film. Handed it over to a trusted colleague. But she hadn't stopped drinking.
And neither had I.
Not as much. But enough. Enough to know I was avoiding sleep. Enough to quiet the voices in my head replaying Daddy's last words. That fight. His face.
I hired a private investigator. Asked him to find Teresa and Gabrielle Therese—my half-sister. I still didn't know what I'd do if we found them. What I'd say. But I needed answers.
I also reached out to Uncle Rick. Daddy's best friend. If anyone knew more, it was him. We scheduled a meeting. I didn't tell Mom.
"Sir," Meynard said, knocking on my office door. "The final schedule for the audition is in. Three days from now, conference room. You'll head the panel."
I nodded.
He paused. "Are you okay?"
I didn't answer right away. "Not really."
"Are you ready for tonight's meeting?"
"No," I admitted. "But I need to know what Uncle Rick will say. What he knew. What Daddy was hiding."
Meynard nodded, then said quietly, "I don't think any of this is your fault, sir."
But I wasn't sure I believed that. Not when I saw Mom barely functioning. Not when I replayed that final argument over and over in my head.
"I trust you, Nard. And Uncle Rick. I just… I hope we find them soon."
"Hopefully this leads to something," he said. "For closure. For peace."
"Yeah," I said, though peace felt like a distant dream.
By five, we were on our way to the hotel. I'd reserved a private room to keep things confidential. The meeting was set for seven, but I wanted time. To breathe. To prepare for whatever I was about to learn.
At the lobby, the concierge smiled. "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation? "
"Yes," I said. "Under Miguel Gutierrez."
As we sat down, waiting for Uncle Rick, my thoughts spiraled.
What if he confirms it? What if Teresa really was the great love of Daddy's life, and we—Mom and I—were just... the fallback?
No. That's unfair.
But the doubt lingered, stubborn and sharp.
I kept picturing the little girl in my mind. Gabrielle Therese. She must be… what? Twenty-three? Twenty-two? What was she like? Did she know about me? Did she even know about Daddy?
Did she cry when he died? Or did he feel like a stranger to her?
I clenched my jaw. I needed to know. Not just for myself—but for Mom too. For the truth. For whatever came next.
When Uncle Rick finally arrived, I stood, heart pounding harder than I wanted to admit.
Time to face it.