The Truth About Egg Mayonnaise and Appropriate Grief

The thing about funeral sandwiches is they're always cut into triangles, as if grief somehow makes us incapable of handling rectangles. I'm standing in the parlor of Hartwell & Sons, clutching a paper plate loaded with what appears to be egg mayonnaise that's seen better decades, watching Uncle Gerald's widow Marjorie hold court by the chrysanthemums like she's accepting an Oscar for Best Performance in a Bereavement Role.

"Such a shock," she keeps saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue that's suspiciously dry. "So sudden."

Sudden. Right. Like a seventy-eight-year-old man chain-smoking Embassy Reds while living on a diet of fried breakfasts and pure spite was ever going to make old bones. I bite into my sandwich and immediately regret it. The egg tastes like it was mixed with salad cream sometime during the Major government.

The relief I feel about Gerald being gone is probably inappropriate. Actually, definitely inappropriate. You're supposed to feel devastated when family dies, aren't you? Instead, I've spent the morning booking a spa weekend in Bath for next month—something I've been putting off for ages but couldn't quite justify until now. Grief requires pampering, doesn't it? Self-care in the face of loss. Perfectly reasonable.

"Imogen, love," Cousin Patricia sidles up, her voice pitched at that special funeral frequency. "How are you holding up, pet?"

Imogen. Of course it's Imogen today, not Gen or Immi like normal people call me. Funerals apparently require the full ceremonial name, the one Gerald's generation chose because it sounded "proper." Thirty-four years of being the only Imogen in every classroom, of explaining the pronunciation, of cringing slightly when teachers called the register. But today I'm back to being the Imogen they intended me to be—respectable, traditional, appropriately grief-stricken.

"Oh, you know," I manage, swallowing what I'm increasingly convinced is a biological weapon. "It's all been rather difficult."

"He was such a character, wasn't he? Always had a story."

A character. Gerald was indeed always full of stories—usually about why I was doing everything wrong, from my career choices (marketing wasn't a "proper job" for a woman) to my relationship status (thirty-four and unmarried was "unnatural"). His favorite story was about how women today didn't know their place, a narrative he'd trot out at every family gathering.

"Yes," I agree. "He certainly had opinions."

I'm being very careful about which truths I let slip. The truth about how I haven't shed a single tear since Marjorie called yesterday. The truth about the dancing chorus line of relief that's been performing in my chest since I immediately googled "luxury spa breaks Bath Somerset."

"Can you keep a secret?" Patricia leans in conspiratorially. "Marjorie's already been asking about the will. Barely twelve hours cold, and she's wondering about the house."

I make appropriate noises of shock whilst internally noting that Marjorie's timing demonstrates admirable pragmatism. Gerald's Victorian terrace in Clapham is worth a fortune. Not that I expect to inherit anything—Gerald made it clear I was a disappointment who'd squandered her potential.

"Imogen, darling!" Great Aunt Millicent bears down on me like a ship in full sail, her black dress billowing despite the complete absence of breeze. Millicent is eighty-six and has been predicting her own imminent demise for two decades while surviving on gin, gossip, and "medicinal cigarettes."

"Awful business," she announces, though her eyes are twinkling with unmistakable enjoyment. "Simply awful."

Millicent kisses my cheek, leaving behind Chanel No. 5 and medicinal gin. "How are you bearing up, sweetheart?"

"It's hard," I say, which is technically true if you consider maintaining an expression of sorrow while internally planning spa treatments to be challenging.

"Of course it is, love. Gerald was very much himself, wasn't he?"

This is perhaps the most honest thing anyone's said all day. He was indeed relentlessly himself. The self that told me at sixteen I was "getting chunky round the middle." The self that informed me my university degree was "a waste of money since I'd only end up married anyway."

"Yes," I agree. "He certainly was."

Millicent studies my face with jeweler-like intensity. "You know, Imogen, grief affects us all differently. Some people cry. Some people rage. Some people book spa weekends and pretend they're processing loss through self-care."

My blood freezes. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing, love. Just saying grief takes many forms." Millicent's smile is knowing. "The important thing is to be honest about what you're feeling. Even if those feelings aren't what other people expect."

I escape toward the refreshment table, where Cousin James approaches with his face arranged in theatrical sorrow.

"Terrible day," he intones. "He'll be missed."

Will he, though? Who exactly will miss Gerald? The local pub might miss his custom, though other patrons will appreciate not listening to his rants about "young people today." Family gatherings will certainly be more pleasant without his reliable pessimism.

I catch myself dwelling on these details—cataloging Gerald's impact, analyzing who'll miss him and why. This is probably what grief looks like for someone like me. Practical assessment rather than emotional collapse. Perfectly normal.

Mrs. Henderson from next door approaches cautiously. She's been Gerald's neighbor for fifteen years, which qualifies her as either a saint or someone with superhuman patience.

"Imogen, dear, I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. It was kind of you to come."

"Gerald was... he had very definite views," she manages finally.

Definite views. Like his opinion that her rose garden was "a disgrace to the neighborhood."

"I hope things will be more peaceful now. For everyone," she adds quietly.

There it is. The closest anyone's come to admitting what we're all thinking—that Gerald's death represents liberation.

"I think they will be," I tell her, and mean it completely.

Mrs. Henderson smiles—not the careful funeral smile, but real understanding. "Sometimes that's what matters most, isn't it? Peace."

I step outside to the funeral parlor's garden before the service begins. Sitting on a strategically placed bench, I allow myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding. I'm not here to grieve Gerald conventionally. I'm here because it's expected. But privately, I'm attending my own liberation party disguised as a funeral.

The thought should horrify me. Normal people don't feel this way when family dies. But instead of horror, I feel vindication. For the first time in my adult life, I can make choices without Gerald's voice providing commentary on my failures.

"Imogen?" The vicar approaches—Reverend Clarke, younger than expected, with an earnest face. "I wanted to check how you're doing before we begin."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Please, call me Benedict. I know this is difficult. Gerald spoke of you often during our conversation."

This is news. Gerald speaking of me at all seems wildly out of character.

"Did he?"

"Oh yes. He was very proud of your success in marketing. Said you'd built quite a career for yourself."

I blink. Gerald's attitude toward my career had always been bemused disapproval, as if marketing were legalized fraud.

"He mentioned you'd won some sort of award recently?"

An award. The only recognition I've received lately was Account Manager of the Month—hardly worth boasting about to clergy.

"He also mentioned you'd been helping him with computer problems. Said you were very patient, even when he was being difficult about technology."

Computer problems. I remember—phone calls over recent months where Gerald grudgingly asked for help with his laptop. I'd assumed he called because I was free labor, not because he valued my expertise.

"He said you never made him feel stupid, even though he knew he was being stubborn."

Gerald's relationship with technology was active hostility. The fact that he'd characterized my help as patient rather than condescending is... unexpected.

"He was quite fond of you, you know. Not always good at showing it, perhaps, but definitely fond."

Fond. Gerald was fond of me. This requires complete recalibration of everything I thought I understood. Fond people don't spend thirty years offering unsolicited criticism.

Do they?

The service passes in familiar hymns and generic platitudes. I sit in the front row maintaining appropriate solemnity while processing Benedict's revelations about Gerald's apparent pride in my achievements.

For someone supposedly relieved about his death, I'm spending considerable mental energy analyzing his behavior. This level of analysis suggests... what? Investment? Attachment? No. Just natural curiosity about someone who's been part of your life for thirty-four years.

At the cemetery, earth falls on the coffin with that hollow funeral sound. I find myself thinking about details again. Phone calls. Computer problems. Gerald telling strangers he was proud of my work while never mentioning it directly.

"Alright, love?" Millicent appears beside me after the committal.

"I think so."

"Good service. Benedict did well, considering he hardly knew Gerald."

"He told me Gerald was proud of me. Of my work."

Millicent nods as if this is obvious. "Of course he was. Talked about you constantly. That campaign you did for the dog food company, with the talking terrier? He showed me the advertisement three times. Said you'd written the words that made the dog seem so clever."

Another piece that doesn't fit. Gerald had seen my advertisements. He'd remembered them well enough to describe them to neighbors. He'd been paying attention in ways I never realized.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"Oh, you know Gerald. Never good with the direct approach. Probably thought you knew how he felt."

But I didn't know. For thirty-four years, I didn't know that his criticism might be concern, that his awkward phone calls might be his way of staying connected.

"I brought something," I say suddenly, pulling out tissue paper from my handbag.

I unwrap a small ceramic dog, the mascot from the advertising campaign Gerald had apparently described to Millicent. It's kitsch and ridiculous and completely inappropriate for a grave site.

"Do you think it's silly?"

Millicent considers seriously. "I think Gerald would be tickled. He always did appreciate whimsy, even if he pretended otherwise."

I place the ceramic dog at the grave marker's base, where it looks absurd and somehow exactly right.

Back at the parlor, Marjorie corners me by the door.

"Imogen, dear, there's something Gerald wanted me to give you."

She hands me an envelope with my name in Gerald's careful handwriting. Inside is a brief note and a key.

"Imogen," it reads, "Your grandmother's jewelry box is in the spare room wardrobe. I've been keeping it safe for when you were ready. I think you're ready now. Also, that advertisement with the talking dog was bloody brilliant. Sorry I never said so before. - Uncle Gerald"

The brass key opens old-fashioned jewelry boxes with tiny drawers and hidden compartments. I remember my grandmother's elaborate Victorian box with its tiny ballerina that pirouetted when wound.

Gerald had been keeping it safe. Waiting for me to be ready.

"He said you'd understand about the key," Marjorie adds. "Something about how you always loved the secret compartments when you were little."

"Thank you," I tell her. "This means a great deal."

And it does. Not just the inheritance, but what it represents. Gerald's faith that I was "ready" for something valuable. His acknowledgment that I might understand secrets and hidden compartments.

Walking home, London looks unchanged, but my relationship to it feels different. More complex. The relief is still there—I'm still looking forward to my spa weekend, still grateful Christmas dinners might pass without tears. Gerald's death still represents liberation from his voice in my head.

But liberation is more complicated than expected. It's not just freedom from Gerald's disapproval—it's freedom from the version of Gerald I thought I knew. The one who never cared about my achievements, who saw me only as failures and missed opportunities.

That Gerald, it turns out, might never have existed.

At home, I make tea and examine Gerald's note and the brass key. Tomorrow I'll collect my grandmother's jewelry box and open all the secret compartments.

Tonight, I'll sit with the mystery of Gerald's affection and my own stubborn relief, letting them coexist like contradictory ingredients in an unlikely recipe.

The truth about egg mayonnaise and appropriate grief is that both seem correct on the surface but become unpalatable when examined closely. Gerald's criticism was his version of caring, poorly executed but genuine. My relief at his death is my version of grief, unconventional but real.

Though I'm still keeping that spa appointment. Some truths are more comfortable to process in lavender-scented treatment rooms than kitchen chairs with cold tea and lingering funeral sandwich aftertaste.

In my handbag, the brass key catches window light, promising secrets and treasures and the enduring possibility that there's always more to discover if you're willing to look carefully enough.

Just like people. Just like families. Just like the complicated truth that you can feel both relieved and bereft, grateful and regretful, liberated and lost—all at the same time, all equally valid, all resistant to the neat categories that appropriate grief is supposed to occupy.

Because that's what truth looks like. Not the simple kind that fits into funeral speeches or spa booking justifications, but the messy, contradictory kind that acknowledges people are complex and relationships are complicated and sometimes the most honest thing you can say about someone's death is that it represents both ending and beginning.

The truth about egg mayonnaise and appropriate grief is that both leave unpleasant aftertastes when consumed according to social expectations. But when you admit neither is what you want or need, you create space for something more authentic to emerge.

Something that might even be nourishing, given time.