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.
