At 78, I sat in my oldest friend Harold’s office behind the chapel and watched my oldest son walk into my private memorial without looking at my coffin once.
Nathaniel looked past the flowers. He looked at the guest book. Then he leaned toward his wife and whispered, “We need to find out about the house before everyone gets emotional.”
I gripped the arms of my chair.
I sat in my oldest friend Harold’s office behind the chapel.
Harold stood beside me, one hand near the volume knob of the security monitor. He’d owned that funeral home for 30 years and had known me even longer.
“You can still stop this,” he said.
“No.”