I was still holding the cardboard box of sympathy cards when Daniel said, “That’s what Dad said you’d do.”
Richard had hidden their last argument from me for four months.
Now my son stood at his funeral in a faded pink dress, watching me arrange everyone else’s grief.
Then he reached into the pocket.
By nine that morning, I had already fixed the spelling on one 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.
“Tisha, sit down.”
My sister touched my elbow.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that all morning.”
“Because I am.”
I wasn’t.
My husband was lying ten feet away in a polished wooden casket, and our only son still hadn’t arrived.
I checked the chapel doors again.
Nothing.
Richard had fought cancer for 11 months.
During the last three, he could barely lift his tea without both hands.
Daniel should have been beside us through all of it.
Instead, four months before Richard died, I came home from the pharmacy to find our wedding photograph shattered on the hallway floor.
Daniel stood beside it with a suitcase.
His face was wet with tears.
“I can’t believe you asked that of me!”
Richard was gripping the back of a chair for support.
“I have no other choice.”
Daniel’s face crumpled.
“Then you’ve lost your son!”
Daniel walked out.
The door slammed.
I followed him onto the porch, but by the time I reached the sidewalk, his car was already pulling away.
Daniel had already accepted a job three states away.
