At 48, I stood beneath a black umbrella and watched my husband bury me.
Rain slid down the edges of the canopy, dripping onto the polished coffin where my portrait stood framed in white roses. In the photo, I was smiling.
Alive. Unaware.
The gold plaque beside it read:
Victoria. Beloved wife and mother. Gone too soon.
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my husband Jack had always loved a performance.
He stood near the coffin in a black suit, one hand pressed dramatically against his chest, while our three children huddled beside him. Sophie, 12, trembled under her coat. Ethan, 14, stared at the ground like he had forgotten how to breathe. Little Noah clutched Jack’s sleeve, whispering, “Daddy, I still don’t understand why Mommy isn’t coming home.”