I remember staring at my phone long after reading Peter’s message. Something came up? At his father’s funeral? And Celia hadn’t replied at all. I knew her well enough to guess she was busy with brunch, yoga, or some trivial pursuit she had prioritized over saying goodbye. The wind rattled the stained-glass windows, and I could almost hear George’s voice in the silence, sharp and amused: “Looks like I’m going to have to keep you company myself, dear.”

I looked down at my hands, the rings heavy, grounding me to the reality of being utterly alone. The chapel wasn’t just empty of people—it was empty of apology, of acknowledgment, of gratitude for the man who had given so much. I took a deep breath, standing slowly. I could let this be the moment I crumpled, or I could make it the moment I decided that George’s memory wouldn’t vanish quietly with these absent children.

I walked up to the casket, fingers brushing over the polished mahogany. “You see, George,” I whispered, “they might not be here, but I am. And I will tell them who you were, even if they refuse to remember.” The lilies’ perfume burned my nose as if it too were angry at the empty chairs. But I didn’t care. I would carry this man’s life forward, even if I had to do it alone.

Then, from somewhere near the back, I heard a soft creak of a chair. My head snapped up. A shadow moved in the doorway—not Peter. Not Celia. But someone. Someone unexpected. And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t entirely alone.READ MORE BELOW