Laura’s casket was a polished oak box, its lid sealed shut, a thin veil of black satin draped over it. The lid bore a single brass plaque with her name, her birth year, and the date of her death—June twenty‑third, two thousand twenty‑four. I could see the faint reflection of the stained‑glass windows in the polished surface, the blue and ruby shards of Saint Michael’s battle with the dragon. I wanted to reach out, to touch it, to feel the wood, to hear the hollow thud of my own heartbeat against it.
“Antonio?” a voice called, soft and distant. I turned. My sister‑in‑law, Marta, stood a few rows ahead, her hair damp, her eyes red. She mouthed a word I could not hear, then turned away, wiping tears with the back of her hand. The crowd shifted, murmuring prayers, the rustle of paper programs, the occasional cough.
At My Daughter’s Funeral, My Son-in-Law Whispered, You Have 24 Hours to Leave My House Seven Days Later, His Phone Rang…
