Saturday morning, I wake up at five.
Haven’t slept more than two hours total.
I keep reaching across the bed expecting to find Harold, finding empty sheets instead.
The funeral home delivered his suit yesterday.
The navy one he wore to Derek’s wedding.
I pressed it myself, even though they said they’d do it.
Needed something to do with my hands.
The house is too quiet.
For three years, it’s been filled with Harold’s confused questions and Patricia’s gentle instructions and the sound of medical equipment beeping.
Now there’s nothing.
Just silence pressing against my eardrums.
I make coffee.
Burn my toast.
Can’t remember if I’m supposed to eat.
People bring food to funerals, right?
Or is that after?
Does it matter?
The phone rings at 7:30.
Derek’s name on the caller ID.
“Hey, Mom, listen, we’re running a little behind. Might be a few minutes late. Save us seats?”
“The service starts at two.”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s traffic and Vanessa needed to stop for… doesn’t matter. We’ll be there. Love you.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
The church is small when I arrive at 1:30.
Roger Pemberton is already there.
My estate attorney.
And apparently the closest thing I have to family now.
He helps me out of the car.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m here.”
“That’s something.”
People trickle in.
Harold’s former colleagues from the accounting firm.
The Johnsons from next door.
Mrs. Chen with her husband.
The librarians I worked with for thirty years.
Patricia, the hospice nurse, sits in the back, crying quietly into a tissue.
Two o’clock comes.
The pastor begins.
I sit in the front pew, and the seat next to me stays empty.
2:05.
2:10.
2:15.
At 2:17, I hear the door open.
Heels clicking on tile.
Whispered apologies.
Derek and Vanessa slide into a pew near the back.
Not the front.
Not next to me.
The back.
I turn slightly.
Derek won’t meet my eyes.
Vanessa is checking her phone.
The service lasts forty-five minutes.
The pastor talks about Harold’s quiet dignity, his brilliant mind, his devotion to family.
That last part makes my throat close up.
People file out slowly.
Head downstairs to the church basement, where our neighbors set up egg salad sandwiches and store-bought cookies and coffee in those big urns that always taste burnt.
I’m accepting condolences from Mrs. Chen when Derek appears at my elbow.
“Mom, we need to head out.”
I turn and look at my son.
Really look at him.
When did he get so old?
He’s forty-four but looks older.
Soft around the middle.
Lines around his eyes that aren’t from smiling.
“The reception just started.”
“I know, but the gala starts at seven. If we leave now, we can still make cocktail hour.”
He glances at his watch.
Actually checks the time while standing at his father’s funeral.
Vanessa touches his arm.
“Derek, we really should go. Traffic on 76 is always terrible on Saturdays.”
“You’re leaving?”
Not a question.
A statement.
Because of course they’re leaving.
“I’m sorry, Mom. We’ll come back soon. Maybe next weekend. We can go through Dad’s stuff, figure out the estate situation.”
Derek leans in for a hug.
Quick.
Obligatory.
His cologne is too strong.
Nothing like Harold’s Old Spice.
“Estate situation?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know, the will and everything. We should probably talk to a lawyer.”
He pulls back and checks his watch again.
“Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll set something up.”
I watch them walk away.
Watch my son and his wife leave my husband’s funeral to go drink champagne with people whose names he probably doesn’t even know.
Mrs. Chen squeezes my hand.
“I’m so sorry, dear.”
“For what?” I ask.
But I know.
Everyone knows.
The whole church just watched my son choose a party over his father’s goodbye.
Roger appears with a paper cup of burnt coffee.
“Margaret, I’d like to go home now.”
“Of course. I’ll drive you.”
“I can drive myself.”
“I know you can, but let me do this.”
The house feels different when I walk in.
Not empty.
Haunted.
Full of fifty years of memories that don’t have Harold in them anymore.
I sit at the kitchen table.
The yellow Formica one that came with the house.
The one where we ate thousands of meals and paid bills and planned Derek’s future.
The one where Derek sat two Christmases ago for forty-five minutes before announcing he had to leave.
Something inside me that’s been bending for fifty years finally breaks.
Not breaks.
Transforms.
Hardens into something new.
Something that knows exactly what needs to happen next.
Sunday morning.
6:00 a.m.
I wake from a dream where Harold is young again and we’re dancing at Derek’s wedding, except Derek isn’t there and all the guests are strangers and the music won’t stop playing.
I make tea.
Earl Grey.
Harold’s favorite.
I’ve been making it so long I forgot I actually prefer chamomile.
The house is cold.
I turn up the heat.
Harold always kept it low, saving money even after we had millions hidden away in investment accounts Derek knows nothing about.
$3.2 million, to be exact.
Built from careful decisions and brilliant timing and sacrifice that ground us down to nothing.
Money that was supposed to give Derek every opportunity.
Money that was supposed to mean something.
I sit at the table sipping tea that tastes wrong.
Bitter.
Too hot.
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