For a single second, I was not a mother. I was a storm. I wanted to rip the veil from her hair, drag Evan by his perfect collar, scream until the stained glass shattered.
But I looked down at Emma’s hands.
Still.
Forever.
So I swallowed my scream.
Evan expected tears. A scene. A shattered old woman collapsing in grief while he performed the grieving husband for the cameras outside. He had always believed I was small because I spoke softly. He thought age made me weak. He thought grief made me foolish.
He was wrong on all three counts.
At the front of the church, Mr. Halden, Emma’s lawyer, stepped out from the shadow of the pulpit. Thin, silver-haired, dry as paper. In his hands was a sealed envelope with Emma’s name written across it.
