Red jacket.
Red trousers.
There was no way not to notice him.
He passed Dad’s casket looking completely out of place, almost as though he were attending a celebration instead of a funeral.
The moment he reached my row, I pulled him aside.
“Eric, what are you wearing?”
He looked exhausted.
“Sarah, not now.”
“Dad would have hated this.”
Eric looked directly at me.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think he would have.”
Before I could ask what he meant, the service began.
For the rest of the ceremony, I kept glancing at that red suit and wondering what could possibly have convinced my brother to wear it.
My brother arrived at our father’s funeral wearing a bright red suit, and I was immediately upset. Every other man in the chapel wore black, charcoal, or dark gray. Then Eric walked in.
