None of us knew about Marianne until the funeral. Grandma was dead, having outlived her in-laws, her son, and his wife. She'd lived a full life, cliche as it was to say.

She'd grown so old and withered that we often forgot she'd been young once. She'd been alive for so long she couldn't remember parts of her life from the beginning, from the middle.

And yet when she went, in her sleep, we couldn't help but feel that it was unfair, even as we knew it wasn't. She'd had more time than most. She'd lived a few years past a hundred. She'd done so much with her life.

There were no speeches at the funeral about how she was gone too soon, how she hadn't done everything she wanted. There was only talk of her long, full life. Her legacy; six grandchildren and one grandchild, with two more on the way, and numerous friends and acquaintances. And all the well-wishers. A large family home in the country. A furniture business worth hundreds of millions.

The funeral was held at the family home in the country. Large as it was, it appeared to be teeming with people. We'd invited as many people as we could, and still there were many more we could have invited, but for lack of space. The house was filled with people and still they weren't even up to a fraction of the people that knew her, loved her.

It was in that house, where we and all those people had come together to mourn a death and celebrate a life well lived, that we first learned of the existence of Marianne.

There we were, standing in a corner of the enormous living room in a loose circle, us Andersson kids six. Luca, the oldest at thirty-one. Carl or Carlisle, twenty-nine. Twenty-seven-year-old Elke, named for Elke Sommer, an actress our mother loved. Theo, short for Theodore, twenty-four. Me, Rainer, commonly referred to as Rain, twenty-two. And our youngest, Philip--Flip to us and Phil to everyone else, nineteen years old.

It was the first time we'd been alone together, just us, since people started arriving. We spent the time alternating between trading stories about Grandma and lapsing into silence as we each recalled our own memories of her.

Someone came in through the doorway, and there was a, well, not a hush, but a dimming of conversation.

I noticed her first. From where I stood, I had a clear view of the arched double doorway.

She was stunning. She had the kind of beauty that reminded you of Old Hollywood starlets, soft and sultry, even without visible makeup. She was dressed in a simple black dress and simple black heels, and still she was the loveliest person in the room. She also looked out of place, like she belonged in a catalog for ladies' funeral wear, in spite of her simple outfit. But it wasn't the outfit, it was her. People were staring, but she didn't pay them any mind.

She stood there in the doorway. Her lips were bare and her eyes were searching. I stared at her, fascinated, until it occurred to me that she might have been looking for one of us.

"Who's that?" asked Flip, to my left.

"Who?" Elke took a sip of her drink.

"In the doorway," said Flip.

Luca peered over the top of Carl's head. "Huh."

Elke and Carl twisted around to look.

"Oh wow," said Elke.

"I think she's looking for one of us," mused Carl.

"Not me." This came from Flip. "I wish she was though," he added wistfully.

Carl shrugged. "Don't look at me, I'm married. Happily."

"Same here," said Luca.

"Well, she's here for somebody," I said. "Theo?"

We all looked at Theo. Theo, who'd had his back to the doorway the whole time, turned around. And froze.

And there it was. She was here for him.

She spotted him almost as soon as he set eyes on her. She smiled then, unsure, and started toward us.

Theo stood there, unmoving. We, on the other hand, retreated further into the corner, close enough to exchange pleasantries with her, far enough to give them some room. Probably not far enough though.

She stopped in front of Theo.

We watched them curiously, as did other eyes in the room. Questions formed and burned in our minds. Seconds passed. Neither of them spoke.

"Christ this is awkward," muttered Carl, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from Elke who hissed, "Shush."

It was the woman who spoke first. "Hello, Theo.”

"Hello."

It was quite formal. I wondered if she was a coworker, or an acquaintance. Or an ex.

He didn't look happy to see her, but he also didn't look mad. He seemed tense. He clearly hadn't been expecting her. But she was here now, and didn't seem to know what to do about it.

"I heard, and-I wasn't sure if I should call first. I thought, maybe, it would be better to come and... I thought that being here in person would be better."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

There was a flash of something in his eyes as he stared at her, and then it was gone.

"Thank you," he said.

We wanted to ask who she was, but we held ourselves in check, waiting to be introduced. Rather, all but one of us.

"Hi," chirped Elke.

Theo turned to us as if suddenly remembering we were there. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking not quite sheepish, but close.

"Right, um...these are my siblings. And um, guys, this is Marianne."

Marianne. We'd none of us heard him mention a Marianne. Not even Elke, with whom he was closest. But that was Theo. He kept things close. We were still learning not to take it personally.

He introduced us from oldest to youngest, and we each shook hands with her. She had soft hands. A firm grip, but hands that were soft and smooth like I imagined a princess's would be.

Theo spoke. "So, this is my family. But we're a few members short."

"Yeah, about two wives and a kid, with two more on the way," I said.

Marianne nodded."Oh."

"Luca's married with a kid and another on the way. Carl's also married and expecting his first kid," Elke explained.

"I know," said Marianne.

She knew.

Before we could comment on it, before we could even really think about it (she knew. She knew) she smiled at Carl and said, “Congratulations.”

Carl smiled back. "Thank you."

"It's lovely to meet you all," she said. "I'm so sorry about your grandmother."

"Thank you," said Luca on our behalf.

"How do you know Theo?" asked Flip, and I could have shaken him by the shoulders. From the look on our siblings’ faces, I wasn’t the only one who’d had the thought.

Marianne and Theo exchanged a look.

"She's my...friend," offered Theo.

We wondered about the space between "my" and "friend" but knew better than to ask about it.

Marianne turned back to Theo, and said, so softly we might not have heard her if we weren't actively listening, "I'm so sorry, Theo."

We didn't know if she was talking about Grandma's death or about something else, or both.

There was something about the way she said it. And what happened next. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek and his eyes closed. Only briefly, but it was enough. We knew.

We'd seen something in his eyes, just before they closed. A softness, a melting, a longing. And we knew.

We knew there was a lot between "my" and "friend" that he hadn’t mentioned. We knew she was someone important enough that he should have told us about her. And we knew that whatever she was to him, whatever they were to each other, it was so much more than we could have imagined.

We knew, and still it wasn’t enough. We wanted to know more. It seemed like he’d told her about us. What had he mentioned? She knew about us and we knew nothing about her because he’d kept her a secret for who knew how long.

And it hurt.

But that was Theo. Theo kept things close. It was how he’d always been.

We were still learning not to take it personally.

I wrote this when I was a teenager. This isn't what it looked like back then. This is an extremely abridged version, with stuff added in. It's about how I felt back then, and how I feel now as well, sometimes. It's a bunch of thoughts thrown together. It's very me, I think.

On graduation day, you want to get up on that stage and cry real tears and say it’s been a long, wonderful journey and mean it. You want to gaze upon their expectant faces – because the future is, after all, ahead of them – and feel that bittersweet sensation which means you care and you’re sad it’s over and you’ll never have this period of your lives again. But you can act. Forget about drama club. Forget about class plays. In that moment, you’re the world’s best faker.

You will cry and hug and say those empty, gushy words that have become so familiar to you. Everything you say means nothing. Nothing you say means anything. It’s how you’ve always been toward each other. All smiles and light hearted conversation, but stabbing each other with daggers in your minds.

Your loneliness is a big thing. It’s so big it swallows you up and doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Some days you wake up, and your skin feels alive. There’s an itch just below its surface, an itch that worsens as the day wears on. You want to lash out, physically and verbally. You want to complain and cry. You want to be left alone. You want to be sympathized with.

You just want. You want everything. You want nothing. You want one thing that you can’t put your finger on. It’s confusing. It’s maddening. You’d peel off your skin and scratch the itch if you could, put an end to your madness.

You are a walking letter of apology. You go around apologizing to everyone, for everything and everyone, but nobody bothers to read you. And the part that makes you the saddest is the fact that you apologize, most of all, for yourself. And for what? What have you done that’s so bad? Why do you feel guilty for merely existing?

You want to be taken seriously and not mistaken.

And it’s so hard to turn the bad stuff into good stuff. It can feel like life’s being hurled at you sometimes. You don’t want to deal, but stuff’s happening and you can’t dodge any of it. And when you do manage it, it takes a lot out of you. It’s exhausting trying to turn negative situations around. Why is it so hard anyway? Because life and lemons and nowhere to make lemonade, I suppose.

The fucking lemonade. Say you do make it. What if it’s not sweet enough? Then you have to go find sugar or honey or something. It's not enough to just make the lemonade. It's got to be sweet, you know? I know you know.

It's exhausting.

This is something I wrote as The Writer Rin that maybe doesn't make a lot of sense:

It’s easier to self-flagellate than to practice self-forgiveness. You need to grow up before you can get out, otherwise you’re not going anywhere. If you're born you can't be unborn. You can either live or die, and that's all there is to it. And if you die you can't live again, but if you're alive you can make the decision to live life to the fullest, on your terms. You can change your friends but you can't change your family. It's good this way. We're such fickle things, we'd likely swap out the relatives we dislike. And wouldn't that be a terrible thing? To have your family constantly changing, even if it is of your own doing? It's easier to reflect on the past than to dream about the future. I know this because I'm a rememberer, not a dreamer. One's thinking about the past, the other's thinking about the future. It can take years to convince yourself you deserve something. Ask me how many years I've spent questioning myself about the things I know and think I know. I imagine a narration of my life, which would perhaps begin like this: Here was a girl who didn't want to be anything more than what she was, and felt guilty about it. And it would be true. It would also be a not-quite truth. It wouldn't be a lie though. I'm often two things at once. It isn't easy. It's almost as hard as self-forgiveness. Another possible beginning of a narration of my life would be: Here is a young woman looking back at her past. The young girl is within her always. It would be an interesting story, but so would anyone else's. Even if you think your life's been dull, anyone who could watch it would likely disagree. How would you begin narrating the story of your life? And how would you end it? That's it. That's all. That's how I've lived up until now. You've seen me at my worst and you've seen me at my best. I've given you everything I am, and I hope you like it. Well, I'd like it, if you told it to me. Even the not-so-great parts. We all just want someone to listen, even when we think it's simply enough to be able to say anything in the first place. So listen. And remember: You need to grow up before you can get out, otherwise you’re not going anywhere. So grow up and grow as a person and get out there. Get out there and live.