12/12/2025
FUNERAL STORIES - The Post-Mortem Makeover
"For years, the mortician had honed her craft, specializing in restorative art that went beyond simple presentation.
Today's case, however, was different. Lying on the table was a young girl, barely a teenager, her face soft and round, a gentle fullness that spoke of youth, perhaps a little too much comfort food, but utterly innocent. Her file noted the cause of death as a sudden, tragic accident.
The mother arrived for the consultation, her grief a raw, palpable force in the room. But beneath the sorrow, an unsettling directive emerged. "She always wanted to be beautiful," the mother whispered, clutching a glossy magazine. "Like this. A model. She always felt... too much." She gestured vaguely at her daughter's cheeks, her chin. "Can you make her look like this?"
The mortician felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. This wasn't restoration; it was recreation. The mother wasn't asking for her daughter's natural beauty to be enhanced, but for her very identity to be erased, reshaped into an image of impossible, living perfection. The mortician saw the magazine cover—a sharp-boned, ethereal model with angular features that bore no resemblance to the girl on the table.
"I can minimize any marks from the accident, bring out her natural beauty. Make her peaceful." the mortician began carefully, choosing her words
The mother's eyes, red and desperate, hardened. "No. You don't understand. She was always self-conscious. Always. This is her chance. Her last chance to be seen... like this." Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. "You will make her look like the model. Or I will find someone who will." The threat was clear, unspoken but potent. The family’s influence in the community was considerable.
The mortician stood at a moral precipice. Her specialty walked a fine line, but this felt like a betrayal of the deceased, a posthumous erasure of self. Yet, to refuse could mean losing her livelihood, her reputation. More importantly, it meant denying a grieving mother her final, twisted wish.
She chose compassion, but with a firm anchor in truth. She would make her beautiful, yes, but naturally beautiful. She began her work, not with the goal of sculpting a new face, but of revealing the inherent grace that was already there. She skillfully contoured, softened, and enhanced, meticulously removing any trace of the accident. She used subtle techniques to give the illusion of more defined features, a delicate refinement, but always within the bounds of the girl’s own facial structure. She spent hours, perfecting every detail, ensuring the skin glowed with a healthy, youthful vitality. The girl looked peaceful, serene, undeniably beautiful—but it was undeniably her.
When the mother arrived for the private viewing, she walked into the room with a nervous anticipation. Her eyes immediately flew to the casket. She looked for a long, silent moment. Her shoulders, which had been tense with expectation, sagged.
A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. She sobbed, a deep, wrenching sound. The mortician braced herself for the anger, the accusation.
But the mother simply stood there, crying, her gaze fixed on her daughter. "Oh, my beautiful girl," she choked out, her voice filled with a heartbreaking tenderness. "She looks... she looks just like she always looked. My beautiful girl."
The mortician watched, a profound relief washing over her. In her grief, the mother had seen past the impossible ideal, past her own desperate wish for transformation. She had seen her daughter, truly seen her, for the very first time. And in that moment, the mortician knew she had made the right choice. She had honored the living, and more importantly, she had honored the dead."
