They were seated at one of the tables outside and would be there until I was ready to leave, so we snuck out through the back door, hopped into Stephen’s car, and sped away.
Eight months had felt like an eternity, not knowing what had happened to Bella.
Sometimes I hoped she was still alive somewhere out there. Other times I knew better and wished for a body to put an end to the grieving.
Standing there as the morgue attendant opened the freezer and slid the tray out, I found myself wishing I could go back to those days of hoping—not the harsh confirmation that was the corpse lying on the table.
Her cheek was cold when I stroked it. I remembered how warm it used to be when I would stroke them to comfort her.
The tears I had been holding back came flooding out.
Distantly, I heard the morgue attendant walk out to give me some space, leaving me and Stephen alone with Bella.
Stephen gave me his condolences, and I laughed at how sad it was that this strange man was being kinder to me about my sister’s passing than my own husband.
"I failed her," I whispered as I stroked her hair, brittle and dry without her rigid hair care routine.