Within a week, he was gone.
When I went back inside, Richard was sitting on the stairs.
“What happened?”
He stared at the broken photograph.
“This has to stay between Danny and me.”
“He’s my son too.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Richard closed his eyes.
“Please, Tisha. Don’t ask me anything.”
Over the next four months, Daniel still answered when I called, but every conversation eventually reached the same wall.
“Mom, I love you. But don’t ask me to forgive Dad.”
I hated Richard for refusing to explain.
I hated Daniel for leaving.
Mostly, I hated myself because while the two men I loved tore something apart between them, I had no idea what I was supposed to fix.
And fixing things was usually the one thing I knew how to do.
A rustle moved through the chapel.
I looked up.
The doors had opened.
Daniel stood there.
For half a second, all I saw was my son.
Then I saw what he was wearing.
Pink.
Not a pink shirt.
Not some strange suit.
A dress.
A woman’s faded pink dress that fell awkwardly below his knees, stretched across his shoulders, and looked even more absurd above his black dress shoes.
Whispers moved through the room.
Someone behind me gasped.
My face went hot.
“Daniel.”
He looked at me.
His eyes were swollen.
I hurried down the aisle.
“Danny, what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why are you dressed like that at your father’s funeral?”
He stared at the casket for a second.
Then he walked past me.
Straight to Richard.
Every irritated word waiting in my throat disappeared.
Daniel put both hands on the casket.
His shoulders folded.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
He bent over the casket and cried with a kind of helplessness I hadn’t seen since he was a child.
Nobody whispered anymore.
I stood behind him, stunned.
Whatever the dress meant, it wasn’t mockery.
During the service, Daniel sat two seats away from me.
I kept glancing at the dress.
Something about it bothered me beyond the obvious.
The color.
The little fabric-covered buttons.
A tiny snag near the waist.
I knew that dress.
But grief had turned my thoughts into loose papers blowing around a room.
Every time I almost caught the memory, it slipped away.
Afterward, people surrounded me.
“I’m so sorry, Tisha.”
“Richard was a good man.”
“Please call if you need anything.”
I thanked everyone.
Found somebody’s missing coat.
Told the caterer where to put the coffee.
Carried a vase toward the reception room.
“Tisha?”
I turned.
Richard’s sister was holding an empty box.
“Where should these sympathy cards go?”
“On the table beside the guest book. No, wait, people will spill coffee there. Give them to me.”
I reached for the box.
“Mom.”
Daniel stood behind her.
“Give me five minutes, Danny.”
His face went blank, like a shutter closing.
“What?”
“I need to finish this.”
He stared at the box in my arms.
Then quietly said, “That’s what Dad said you’d do.”
My fingers tightened around the cardboard.
“What did you say?”
Daniel looked around.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
“Danny…”
“Please, Mom.”
Something in his face stopped me.
I handed the box back.
“Put them anywhere.”
Richard’s sister blinked.
I didn’t care.
Daniel led me into a small room behind the chapel.
The moment the door closed, I pointed at the dress.
“Start explaining.”
He looked down at himself.
“I know how it looks.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Danny.”
A tiny, miserable laugh escaped him.
