A man pumped gas beside an old pickup truck.
A woman carried paper grocery bags into a family SUV.
Two teenagers in school hoodies crossed at a light with iced coffees in their hands.
I wanted to roll down the window and ask how everyone could keep moving while my life had become something I could not explain without sounding dramatic.
Garrett drove with both hands on the wheel.
At a red light, he looked over and said, “Today is not about you.”
That was his favorite sentence.
It sounded reasonable if you were not the person disappearing inside it.
The cathedral was already full when we arrived.
Samantha met us at the side entrance.
Garrett’s sister had always looked like she was on her way to a board meeting, even at breakfast.
That day, she wore a sharp black suit, simple diamond studs, and a face arranged into professional grief.
She looked at Maya’s carrier, then at me.
“You brought her?” she asked.
“She’s two days old,” I said.
Samantha glanced toward the sanctuary doors.
“Try not to let her cry during the tributes.”
I should have hated her then.
The truth is, I was too tired to hate anyone.
Pain had made the edges of the room swim.
I could feel dampness beneath my dress, and every step sent a pull through the stitches low on my belly.
Garrett leaned down near my ear.
“Smile when they greet you.”
So I smiled.
I smiled at men who shook my hand too hard.
I smiled at women who said, “You look wonderful for just having a baby.”
I smiled when one of Richard’s old friends said Maya was “good timing” because she gave the family something hopeful to discuss.
I smiled until my cheeks hurt more than my incision.
Then the service began.
Garrett positioned me beside the casket.
The casket was absurd.
There is no softer word for it.
Solid gold, polished until it reflected the chandeliers, surrounded by white flowers and guarded by men in dark suits who looked like they had been hired to protect a bank vault instead of a body.
Richard Whitmore had wanted it, apparently.
Samantha told me he had joked for years that if he could not take money with him, he could at least be buried inside it.
Nobody laughed when she said it.
They just nodded, as if wealth had made vulgarity tasteful.
I stood there while the pastor spoke about legacy.
I stood there while Garrett delivered remarks about honor.
I stood there while Samantha dabbed at dry eyes with a folded handkerchief.
Maya started crying twenty minutes into the service.
At first, it was a small sound.
A newborn complaint.
Then it rose.
A thin, desperate wail that made every nerve in my body lean toward her.
I looked down at the carrier by my feet.
She was red-faced, fists working free from the blanket.
I tried to bend.
The pain flashed so bright across my abdomen that my knees softened.
I gripped the edge of the gold casket with one hand.
Garrett’s eyes snapped toward me.
“Stand up straight,” he whispered.
“I need to sit down,” I whispered back.
He did not blink.
“My stitches,” I said. “I think they’re tearing. I’m bleeding.”
His mouth barely moved.
