I Asked to See My Daughter. They Told Me “The Service Is Underway.”
The funeral director tried to block me with politeness.
Soft voice. Gentle hands. “Ma’am, we can’t—”
I didn’t negotiate.
I used the same tone I used in the ER when someone was about to make a fatal mistake.
“I need to see my daughter now,” I said. “If you refuse, I will call the police and report that I suspect something was missed.”
He went pale.
And then he moved.
The preparation room was cold and bright in a way that felt cruel.
Jessica lay there peaceful, dressed for burial, her face calm like she’d never suffered a day in her life.
But I didn’t focus on her face.
