Funerals have a certain kind of silence.
Not peaceful.
Pressurized.
The chapel smelled like lilies and cold air conditioning.
People spoke in whispers that sounded rehearsed, like they were afraid a normal voice would shatter something.
My daughter Jessica was thirty-five.
Healthy. Active. Young enough that the words “heart failure” still didn’t feel real in my mouth.
I was trying to do the only thing I could do: stay upright for my grandson.
Ethan was seven, small in a black suit that swallowed his arms.
He held my hand like he was gripping a rope over deep water.
