In a gentle tone, he said, “Eat something first. I made this especially for you. You haven’t had a thing all day.”
When I didn’t move, he added, “Don’t take it out on your body. I’ve set your mom’s funeral for the day after tomorrow. The cemetery spot she liked, the sunny one she once mentioned; I’ve gone over every detail. Everything I promised, I’ll make sure it happens.”
At the mention of my mom, the tension in my back finally eased slightly.
I closed my eyes, swallowing the rage in my chest, and took the bowl.
The funeral day was gray and overcast.
Dressed in black, I stood at my mom’s grave, clutching a white chrysanthemum. Tears welled in my eyes, and grief weighed heavily on my face.
The wind lifted my skirt and ruffled the hair at Erving’s forehead.
He stayed by my side the entire time, greeting guests while still keeping an eye on me. Everyone said I had married a good man.
I forced a smile; it didn’t reach my eyes.
Then, the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the quiet.
I turned and saw a swarm of reporters charging in, cameras flashing like lightning in the solemn cemetery.
“Mr. Pollock! Are the photos of you kissing Anya Heffernan in the hotel hallway real?”