“Friday?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“Claire, Friday is Melissa’s birthday dinner. The reservation has been
booked for weeks.”
I thought grief had already found every place inside me capable of
hurting.
I was wrong.
“Dad, my husband and my children are dead.”
“I understand.”
No, he didn’t.
“But today is your sister’s birthday. We can’t come.”
At the funeral, I stood between three caskets while Ethan’s parents held
me upright.
Margaret Miller cried so hard she could barely breathe.
My father-in-law, Robert, kept one hand on my shoulder.
My side of the church was nearly empty.
Only Aunt Ruth came.
She drove six hours after hearing about the crash from a neighbor.
Three days later, my mother texted:
