At my husband’s funeral, I expected tears.
I expected flowers, hymns, whispered condolences, and the heavy silence that follows a life ending after forty-six years of marriage.
What I did not expect was to see her sitting in the front row.
She wore a black dress, red lipstick, and a small pearl necklace I recognized immediately.
Because I had bought that necklace for my husband’s office Christmas party twelve years ago.
My daughter Claire gripped my arm so tightly it hurt.
“Mom,” she whispered, “who is that woman?”
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