Known but Not Seen

By Roz Buckman

TW: This story is centred around spiritual and emotional abuse and contains a reference to sexual violence.

Ruth stood outside the doors of the funeral parlour, hesitant to enter, her heart pounding.

Beside her, the quiet presence of her young adult children steadied her. One gently touched her arm, the other offered a faint smile.

She knew she had their support. Today was her father’s funeral — yet instead of belonging, she felt like an outsider stepping back into a world she had long left behind.

She knew what waited inside: familiar faces… and silent judgement. Whispers behind folded programs. Stares that lingered too long.

She was returning to a place she had once called home, among people she had known all her life — yet she no longer had anything in common with them.

Ruth had been born into this world — a tight-knit, rule-bound religious community, where unspoken regulations were treated as divine law.

But Ruth wasn’t part of it anymore.

Years earlier, she had found the courage to leave — walking away not only from an abusive marriage but from the suffocating grip of what she now recognised as a cult.

Slowly, painfully, she began to discover freedom — freedom from its rules, its teachings, its fear.

She had traded long skirts for jeans. Her once-long hair was cut short, no longer something to hide behind. Earrings, jewellery, and a touch of make-up gave her a quiet confidence she’d never known.

Most importantly, she was beginning to find herself again.

And yet, standing here, surrounded by the world she had escaped, the old shadows pressed close.

The day before the funeral, Ruth had met her mother and siblings for lunch at a local restaurant. She hadn’t seen them in over a year.

She walked in with hope — her heart longing that, in their grief, barriers might soften. But the moment she arrived, her mother approached with a vague, dismissive greeting:

“Oh, it’s Ruth, is it?” she said, before turning away to greet another family member with warmth.

The dismissal stung more than Ruth cared to admit. It was the first reminder that here, she was an outsider — and she sensed more reminders were coming.

Inside the funeral parlour, the air carried the faint scent of lilies and furniture polish.

Murmured conversations pressed against her as she walked to the seats reserved for family. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, grateful not to meet the eyes that followed her.

The service was sombre. Her mother had insisted it resemble a church service, leaving no space for eulogies — no chance to share stories of a dad and grandfather they had loved.

It felt formal, cold, shaped by ritual more than relationship.

Afterward, Ruth and her children stood quietly apart. An old childhood friend noticed her and approached, hugging her warmly.

“You look different,” he said.

There was no judgement in his tone, only surprise. Ruth smiled softly, her eyes warming.

“So do you, actually.”

For a moment, she felt seen. Accepted. But the feeling was fleeting.

Whilst waiting in the car to follow the hearse to the graveside, Ruth spotted a familiar figure — a man she had once called “Uncle.”

Someone she had trusted. Someone who had violated her. Her family had known, yet her parents had chosen to remain friends with him.

How dare he attend her father’s funeral? How dare he stand there, chatting lightly, as if nothing had happened?

Her stomach tightened with a sick familiarity she wished she could forget. Once more she bore the weight of a trust broken, and of family who had refused to stand by her.

At the graveside, she tried to comfort her mother. Leaning in for a hug, she asked softly if she was okay. Her mother pushed her away — once, twice, three times.

Finally, Ruth gave up — the sting of betrayal settling deep in her chest once again.

Back at the wake, she tried again to reconnect. The room was crowded, but the atmosphere was oddly detached.

People clustered around tables laden with sandwiches, cakes, and steaming cups of tea. Their voices rose and fell in light chatter, laughter even drifting across the room.

It struck Ruth with painful clarity — most were here not for condolences, not for her father’s memory, but for the company and the food.

Few approached her with sympathy. Fewer still acknowledged the loss that weighed so heavily on her and her children.

She made her way to an elderly woman whose home she had spent many hours in as a girl. Smiling warmly, she greeted her by name.

The woman’s face remained blank.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said, beginning to walk away.

Ruth’s breath caught.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Ruth. Alan’s daughter. You’re at my father’s funeral.”

The woman’s eyes remained indifferent.

“I still don’t know who you are.”

She walked away, leaving Ruth rooted to the spot in disbelief.

Ruth tried to rationalise — perhaps the woman was struggling with memory loss. But then it happened again. Another woman. Another denial. Another conversation -almost word for word.

Her chest tightened. Anger and grief swirled heavy and sharp. How could people she had known all her life be so dismissive?

Watching the familiar faces, she realised with bitter clarity:

“Well… you haven’t changed.”

Her throat constricted. Fighting tears, she knew she had to leave. With a hurried goodbye to her family, she and her children began the long drive home.

In the days that followed, Ruth replayed every moment — the disinterested greeting from her mother, the denials, the silences. Each memory weighed her down.

But she also remembered her friend’s words: “You look different.”

She wished she had said what was burning inside her:

“I am different.”

Because it was true. She was not the girl they remembered. She had stepped away from abuse, from oppressive rules, from shame disguised as faith.

She was learning to breathe again — slowly, steadily. She was learning to make choices of her own.

She was learning to heal, even when it hurt, even when it meant standing alone.

She thought about her younger self — the girl who once walked on eggshells, desperate to belong.

That girl would hardly recognise the woman she was becoming. And Ruth felt something new rise within her: not just survival, but pride.

Something shifted deep within her.

Whether they recognised her or not no longer mattered.

She was beginning to recognise herself.

© 2025 Roz Buckman