Instead, I breathed slowly.
Because Daniel had taught me one thing before he died: never interrupt someone while they are exposing themselves.
Vivian leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough for the front rows to hear. “You should be grateful we’re allowing you to sit with the family.”
Noah’s hand moved.
At first, I thought he was reaching for mine. Then I saw what he was holding.
Daniel’s phone.
My heart stopped.
He gripped it with both hands, his knuckles pale. His face was still that of a child, but his eyes were Daniel’s—dark, steady, and suddenly older than eight.
“Noah,” I whispered.
But he stood.
The entire chapel turned.
Vivian froze, annoyed at first, then uncertain.
Noah looked straight at her.
“Grandma,” he said, his voice carrying to the last pew, “do you want me to play the recording Dad made about you last week?”
Vivian’s expression collapsed instantly.
The color drained from her face.
Grant’s jaw tightened.
And for the first time since Daniel died, no one whispered.
