The morning we laid my husband, Mark Bennett, to rest, the sky over Willow Creek Funeral Home was a hard, bruised gray.
A thin mist clung to my black coat as I stood in the foyer with my sixteen-year-old son, Noah, and my nine-year-old daughter, Sophie, holding my hands like they were afraid I might disappear too.
Mark had fought leukemia for three long years. I had watched the man who once carried Sophie across the beach fade into hospice sheets. I thought saying goodbye to him would be the worst pain of my life.
I was wrong.
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An hour before the service, Mr. Collins, the funeral director, approached me with a pained expression.