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.”
Toby glanced down at his shoes with a shy grin. “He’d say they’re too shiny.”
“He would,” I replied warmly.
For a moment I almost reached beside me out of habit, expecting to feel Walter’s hand there.
As the service ended and people began leaving, Ruth touched my arm.
“Mama, do you want to step outside for some air?”
“Not yet,” I said.
That was when I noticed a man standing quietly near Walter’s photograph. He lingered there as though unsure whether to approach.
“Do you know him?” Ruth asked softly.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. But his old military jacket caught my eye. “Though he may have known your father.”
The man slowly walked toward us, and suddenly the room felt smaller.
“Edith?” he asked gently.
