While others bowed their heads in prayer, Lauren lifted her phone discreetly, checking her reflection. She adjusted her lipstick, smoothed her hair, even allowed herself the faintest smile when she thought no one was watching.
But I was watching.
During Emily’s last year, I had started to see things clearly. When death lingers close, it strips away pretense. People stop hiding who they are.
Lauren had visited, yes—but never with warmth. Never with tenderness. Her questions were always the same: paperwork, property, insurance policies. Practical things, she called them. Necessary conversations. But not once did she sit beside Emily and hold her hand just to comfort her. Not once did she speak with genuine care.
And she never called me “Dad.”
Only “Mr. Collins.”
During the service, Andrew remained still, his eyes fixed on the coffin as if he could will it open, as if somewhere inside him he believed time might reverse if he stared hard enough. When Lauren whispered those words, I saw his shoulders tense, just slightly. He had heard her. I knew he had.
But he said nothing.