Chapter 4

"You think I don't know what you've been doing?" Ethan continued, his voice hard. He stood, blocking my way, Sophia peeking from behind him. "You've been filling the old man's head with your mumbo-jumbo, haven't you? Making him think Kay's death was somehow my fault."

His eyes flicked to the box. "Get that thing out of here. It's morbid."

I held Kay's ashes tighter. My son. Not a "thing."

The urge to scream, to lash out, to call down every curse my ancestors knew, was a burning tide within me.

But then, a memory. Kay, so small, his face serious as he once told me after I'd scolded a disobedient dog too harshly. "Hurting makes the heart dark, Mama. The spirits don't like dark hearts."

My path, the path of a Spirit Guide, was not one of vengeance. It was one of balance, of peace. Kay understood that, even as a child. His spirit, now free, would not want me to tarnish my own with hatred.

The burning tide receded, leaving behind a cold, desolate calm.

Ethan saw my silence as weakness, or perhaps guilt.

He stepped closer, his face contorted with a sneer. "Lost your tongue, holy woman? Or are you finally realizing your little act is up?"

He reached out, his hand coarse, and roughly grabbed my arm, trying to pull the box away. "Give me that. I'll have it buried. Properly. Not kept around like some... pagan idol."

I flinched but held firm.

"He's dead, Ethan," I said, my voice low but clear, cutting through his tirade. "Kay. Our son. Is. Dead."

The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.

For a moment, something flickered in Ethan's eyes. Confusion? A sliver of pain?

Then Sophia whimpered from the bed, "Ethan, darling, don't let her upset you. She's just trying to make you feel bad. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident."

Ethan's face hardened again. "She's right. You're just trying to manipulate me. You probably neglected him. Too busy with your chants and your... spirits."

He snatched his hand away from me as if I'd burned him. He wiped it on his jeans.

"I'm done with this. Done with you."

He turned, scooped Sophia into his arms, her feigned sobs muffled against his chest.

"We're going to the casita," he said, his voice thick with false tenderness for her. "Away from all this... negativity."

As he carried her out, I saw it. The prize rosebush Samuel had planted for his wife, Ethan's grandmother, just outside the window. It had been in full, glorious bloom yesterday.

Now, its vibrant pink petals were brown and shriveled, the leaves drooping as if struck by a sudden, killing frost.

The blessing was truly gone.