I knew Walter’s habits by heart. I knew how he liked his coffee, how he checked the back door every night before bed, and how his church coat always rested on the same chair every Sunday afternoon.
I believed I understood every part of him that mattered.
But sometimes love carefully tucks certain memories away. And sometimes those hidden pieces only appear when it’s too late to ask about them.
The funeral itself was small, just as Walter would have preferred. A few neighbors offered quiet condolences. Our daughter Ruth dabbed gently at her eyes, pretending no one noticed.
I nudged her softly. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll ruin your makeup.”
She sniffed. “Sorry, Mama. Dad would tease me if he saw.”
Across the aisle, my grandson Toby stood stiff in his polished shoes, trying to look older than he really was.
“Grandma, are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Do you need anything?”
I squeezed his hand. “I’ve handled worse,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Your grandfather would have hated all this attention.”
