A whisper stopped the funeral cold — when the grandmother opened the coffin, a terrifying truth was revealed.

And so, I stepped back. I let my son’s wife dictate the care, because society tells us that a mother knows best, that a mother’s love is the ultimate shield.

When Ava “died,” Rachel insisted on an immediate funeral. She demanded a closed casket, sobbing that she wanted everyone to remember Ava “as she was,” not as the illness had left her. It happened so fast—the death certificate, the transfer to the funeral home, the scheduling of the service—that we barely had time to breathe, let alone think.

The Night of the Vigil
I couldn’t sleep the night before the burial. A gnawing sensation, like a physical hunger, clawed at my stomach.

I drove to the funeral home. I told the night director, a tired man with coffee stains on his tie, that I needed to say a private goodbye to my granddaughter. He hesitated, citing policy, but I have the kind of face that doesn’t take no for an answer, and eventually, he unlocked the heavy oak doors and left me alone in the viewing room.

The air smelled of lilies and refrigeration. The room was cold, lit only by the sconces on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows across the carpet.

I approached the casket. It was white, small, and terrifyingly final.

Continue reading…