Sunlight on Water

This story is by A. K. McCutcheon and was a runner-up in our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

A.K. McCutcheon is a Latina writer and California native. Her short fiction appears online in Elegant Literature and On The Premises, and in print anthologies from History Through Fiction and the Next Generation Short Story Awards, where she won the “Best Suspense/Thriller” award in 2025. Connect with her at akmccutcheon.com

Four days before Dad’s funeral, the mortuary’s number flashed on my phone as I rummaged through my closet, pretending it mattered to find a work-appropriate outfit that didn’t need ironing. A bass voice rumbled: “Ms. Silva? Howard Greenwood calling from Greenwood Memorial Gardens. Are you available this morning? It’s urgent that we speak in person.”

Urgent? In person? Traffic would gridlock on the Bay Bridge to the mortuary in Oakland. Hopefully, my 9 a.m. townhouse tour could be rescheduled—I needed that commission. Purchasing the “Golden Memorial Services” package had maxed my credit limit.

“All right,” I sighed into the phone, “I’ll be there.”

An hour later, I sat in the softly lit office, praying this wasn’t about my credit card.

Mr. Greenwood (“Please call me Howard”) folded his hands on the burnished desk and cleared his throat. “I regret to inform you that we encountered an identification issue after your father arrived from the hospice facility.”

My heart pounded a drumbeat in my ears. “What do you mean… identification issue?”

“Two intake entries displayed similar names.” Perspiration popped on his hairline like unstrung beads. “I’m sorry to say… our technicians conducted a cremation.”

Time stopped, then restarted. The room careened around me.

Howard’s voice burbled as if from under water: “I sincerely apologize for this unfortunate occurrence. We will refund your payment for the casket. If you proceed with interment, we will waive all costs.” His leather chair creaked under his expansive girth as he swiveled toward the credenza behind him, lifted a bronze urn, and placed it on the desk. “This is our premium funerary model. Your father… is here.”

“My father is… there?” I gasped. “It’s an open casket service. How did this happen?”

He droned something about “irregular” and “unacceptable.” My body quaked with an intensity that clattered my teeth.

Dad didn’t want to be burned and bottled. We had never discussed it, but I was sure it wasn’t what he wanted. I ached to see him resting on white satin, wearing the charcoal-gray suit that complemented his silver hair. I ached to kiss his cheek. And I ached to lunge across the desk and throttle Howard Greenwood with his perfectly knotted tie until his eyes bulged from his skull. I needed a lawyer with unrelenting bloodlust to sue this negligent mortician into oblivion.

Fuming, I leaped to my feet, seized the urn, and stomped out of the office and into the harsh daylight of the parking lot.

Inside my car, I laid the urn gently on the passenger seat and squeezed my eyes shut to staunch scalding tears.

A violent tapping sound intruded. My eyes snapped open. Howard Greenwood stood outside my car, knuckles hammering the window. “Please wait, Ms. Silva. I have something to show you.”

My jaw clenched. What could this awful man have to show me? An impulse surged to ignore him and drive away, but that would be brutally unkind. Exhaling hard to tamp down my fury, I nodded a silent reply.

I followed him across the parking lot, through a green metal gate, and along a gravel path, finally passing beneath a vine-covered arch crowned with scrolled letters: FOUNTAIN GARDEN.

The garden encircled us, bordered by boxwood hedges, canopied by small delicate trees. Four wooden benches with gracefully arching backs rested at intervals around the inner curve. White roses bloomed in carved stone planters. A round fountain featured an alabaster angel, her gaze cast downward at the water pooling in a basin lined with sapphire-blue tiles shimmering in the sunlight.

Howard motioned toward the nearest bench before seating himself at the opposite end. We sat without speaking. I glanced at him, slit-eyed. The fountain gurgled to the birdsong from the trees. My outrage simmered. The garden is lovely, but I still plan to sue you. Then he broke the silence—

“Your father loved it here.”

My face flushed with heat. How dare he claim to know anything about my father?

Before I could demand an explanation, he continued: “I wasn’t sure if he was the man I remembered, so I checked our registry. Two years ago, Carlos Silva made funeral arrangements for his wife—Marisa.”

“My mother,” I murmured.

He nodded. “I found him here one day. He said he didn’t want to think of his wife in the cold, dark ground. He wanted to think of her in a beautiful place, with sunlight on water. For about a year, he visited several times a month. We’d sit and talk.”

I shook my head, stunned. Whenever I asked Dad to visit Mom’s grave with me, he always found a reason to stay home. If I’d known his feelings, maybe his refusals wouldn’t have wounded me so deeply. I needed to know more. “What did he talk about?”

Howard settled back on the bench. “He talked about growing up near the ocean in Oaxaca, coming to the U.S., joining the Navy. Being at sea reminded him of home. He considered reenlisting, but then he met your mother.”

Dad rarely spoke about his life before he met Mom. It felt unreal that he would share it with a stranger. “What else did he say?”

“He said he fell for your mother at first sight,” Howard smiled. “She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, until you were born.”

Tears pricked my eyes. Dad never said things like that. I wished he had. “Did he tell you about… the car crash?”

“Yes.” His tone softened. “He knew how close you were to your mother. Her passing was so sudden. He didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”

I couldn’t stand to hear any more. The words spilled out: “Why didn’t he ask me to sit with him here? We could have talked, we—” I choked on my regret.

“Ms. Silva, I’ve witnessed every stage of grief. I believe your father didn’t want to burden you with his sadness.”

I began to understand why Dad felt safe confiding in this man. Howard’s presence—his soothing voice—radiated warmth. I dabbed my eyes. “Tell me more about my father.”

Howard brightened. “He loved working in the shipyards at the port, loading their container ships. He dreamed of going to sea on one of those ships, visiting ports all over the world.”

I’d never known what my father dreamed of—or if he dreamed at all. The mournful truth throbbed like a bruise.

Dad’s co-workers at Mayer International Shipping had overwhelmed me with flowers, food, and cards. Yesterday, a handwritten letter arrived from the company’s CEO, Victoria Mayer. Her glowing sentiments swelled my heart. I stashed the letter in my handbag to keep the precious memories close.

“The last time I saw your father, he said he invited you on a Caribbean cruise.” Howard leaned toward me. “That trip must be a wonderful memory.”

My insides churned with guilt. I had declined Dad’s invitation, too busy working full time and cramming for my real estate license exams. “We’ll go after the holidays,” I’d promised. Two weeks after Christmas, they found the cancer. Eight months later, he was gone. I thought if I gave him a beautiful funeral, it would ease my remorse. And now…

Howard interrupted my thoughts: “Ms. Silva, I know I can’t make it right. But I can provide a dignified service for your father, at no cost. Any—” his voice cracked—“any arrangements you’d like.” He covered his mouth with a shaking hand.

For the first time since we entered the garden, I turned to face him. This man cared about my father. Tension ebbed from my shoulders. “Howard,” I began slowly, “thank you for your kindness to my father… for listening.”

My phone pinged: a meeting reminder. I shouldered my handbag and stood, my decision settled. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll talk about Dad’s service.”

Howard rose from the bench, his eyes glistening. “Thank you, Ms. Silva.” He offered his hand.

I accepted, matching his firm grip. “Please call me Laurie.”

**

I hurried to my car and scrambled behind the wheel. There, resting on the passenger seat, was the bronze urn. Fresh tears burned my cheeks. Now I knew: Dad didn’t want the cold, dark ground. Dad wanted sunlight on water.

I pulled the envelope from my handbag—the letter from Victoria Mayer, with her private number and an invitation to call anytime.

I can’t make it right. But I can do this—

I reached for my phone.

**

That evening, I drove to the Port of Oakland to meet the captain of the Mayer International ship Reliant. The ship was departing at midnight, headed for oceans and continents around the world. I will entrust my father to Captain Nikos, and he will ensure that Dad disembarks at every port. Dad’s travels will continue until the urn returns to me—empty.

As I approached the terminal, the height of the massive ship soared skyward into a blazing sunset above an endless blue horizon. My breath hitched in my throat.

“Bon voyage, Dad,” I whispered.