But there was something else.
Something I’d dismissed because I was too devastated to think clearly.
When I leaned over to kiss her forehead, I thought I felt the faintest movement beneath my fingers.
A tiny twitch.
I’d told myself it was my imagination.
Now, standing beside her freshly covered grave, listening to our seven-year-old son insist that his mother was calling him, I wasn’t so sure.
“Daddy, please!” Ethan sobbed. “She said my name. I heard her!”
I looked toward the funeral director, Mr. Collins.
Continue on the next page:
