I had spent weeks preparing for this day. I had chosen the flowers, the readings, the music my daughter Emily had always loved.
I had written her name over and over in my mind since the moment I got the call.
And now I was standing in that chapel, hearing those words beside the place where she lay at rest.
I did not scream. I did not move.
I pressed my lips together, kept my eyes forward, and breathed very slowly.
Because if I had spoken in that moment, I would not have been able to stop.
I want to tell you about Emily.
Not the end of her story, but the middle of it. The part where she was still fighting.
She came to visit me on a Tuesday afternoon in late spring. She wore long sleeves even though the temperature outside was well into the eighties.
“I run cold,” she said, and smiled.
I handed her a cup of tea and watched her hands.
There were moments where I almost said something. Where the question formed in my throat and then dissolved before it reached my lips.
Because Emily would always say the same thing.
