The cardboard sympathy-card box was still in my hands when Daniel said, “That’s what Dad said you’d do.”
Richard had kept their final argument from me for four months. Now my son stood at his father’s funeral in a faded pink dress, watching me organize everyone else’s grief.
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By nine that morning, I had already corrected the spelling on a flower card, found an extra chair for Richard’s elderly cousin, reminded the funeral director that my husband hated organ music, and answered the same question about the reception six times.Find Grief Counseling
“Tisha, sit down,” my sister said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that all morning.”
“Because I am.”
I wasn’t.
Richard was lying ten feet away in a polished wooden casket, and our only son still hadn’t arrived.Order Custom Logos
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