Alani nodded, as she was led through a double door where a man was waiting for her. She stepped over the threshold into what seemed like a world of flowers and caskets.

“Alani, this is the owner, James Masters. I’m going to handle the paperwork. He will take care of you. You’re in good hands,” the woman said.

“That you are,” he said. Alani took in his expensive suit, fake smile, and his greasy hair. His brown skin matched hers, but it was a shade richer, which let her know he wasn’t from where she was from. He was the type of person who built his business in the hood, but wouldn’t dare live there. He was getting rich based on the deaths, often murders, of black people and Alani wasn’t naïve to the fact. “Let’s sit,” he offered, as he grabbed a book from atop of one of the fancy caskets and took a seat beside her. They flipped through the options and Alani felt instant intimidation from the prices. It seemed that even the simplest details were $1000 and up. She went through the book, not even eyeing the makes of the caskets or the type of flowers, but noticing the prices. Her heart was full of angst. She never knew that it was so expensive to put a loved one to rest. I can’t afford any of this. Even with the insurance, she thought, dismayed. She wanted to do her brother and daughter justice and tears pooled in her eyes.

“You want the best for your daughter. This rose gold, pink, aluminum casket is a great option. It will never decay. It will withstand the elements well. I have mothers come in here and all they are thinking about is getting change from that insurance policy, but I know a good mother when I see one. This is perfect for your angel,” James said.

She looked at him, her lip trembling. He was selling her hard; his voice full of awe, as if he was peddling her a brand-new car instead of a box that would go in the ground filled with her most precious possession in the world. She was overly emotional. Her hands shook, as she turned the pages, desperately hoping that the next page would reveal something…anything that was within her range. It was costing her more to bury her daughter than it had to birth her. Death was more expensive than life; and this man was too eager, too pushy. He held no remorse, no timidity about broaching the sensitive subject. This man had no shame about measuring her love for her kid based on what she chose out of this high-ass book. Alani felt like a failure.

The woman from before, the wearer of the fake smile, knocked on the door, softly, before peeking her head inside the room.

“Ms. Hill, can I speak with you for a moment?” she said.