Caroline walks beside me, her fingers laced through mine. Her parents didn't come—she said that they stopped by an hour earlier to give my family privacy today.
Dad's tombstone comes into view, and my chest tightens. There are already several arrangements sitting there—fresh bouquets, little clusters of flowers carefully placed at the base.
It comforts me more than I expect. Dad still has people who remember him.
Still has people who loved him outside these three walls of our little family.
Mom kneels first, brushing away leaves like she's tidying up for him. Sam and I set our flowers down on each side, and for a moment, nobody says anything.
Mom places her fingertips on Dad's name, tracing each letter slowly.
"Hey, love," she whispers, her voice already trembling. "We're here. The kids and I."
She pushes herself back up to her feet, and Sam and I rise with her. We settle into place—Sam on her left, me on her right—like instinct, like muscle memory.
I slip an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me right away, the same way she always does on days like this, like she needs the reminder that we're still here... even if he isn't.
"You should see them now," she murmurs, "Sam's in college and... oh, Henry, you wouldn't believe how grown she is. She's not our little girl anymore." Her voice wavers. "She's smart, and kind, and she's trying so hard. You'd be so proud of her. I know you would."
Sam lets out a tiny breath, eyes glued to the ground, squeezing Mom's arm.
Mom's chin trembles.
"And Zach..." She laughs softly, but it breaks halfway through. "He's doing everything you always said he would. Playing amazing. Leading. Becoming exactly the man you were teaching him to be." She wipes at her cheek, frustrated when more tears fall. "Every time I watch him skate, I think, 'God, Henry, you should be here for this.' You should be cheering him on. You should be yelling at the refs with me."
She tries to laugh again, but it crumples under the weight of her grief.
"I miss you every single day," she whispers, her shoulders trembling. "Every morning. Every night. It doesn't stop. I still sleep with your gray Gators shirt — the one you refused to throw away even when it had holes."
She lets out a shaky, wet laugh. "It still smells like you. Isn't that ridiculous? I... I just can't let it go. It's the only way I fall asleep most nights. Makes me feel like you're still next to me."
Sam starts crying quietly beside her.
I pull Mom a little closer, my hand firm on her shoulder, holding her up because she's barely standing on her own.
Mom sniffles hard and wipes her cheek, even though more tears spill immediately.
"Are you doing okay over there?" she murmurs, voice thin and breaking. "Are people treating you well? You never were good at keeping your mouth shut, so I'm sure you've made friends already."
She tries to laugh at her own joke, but it cracks into another sob.
"Oh, Henry," she chokes out, "why did you have to leave me so soon? Didn't you promise me you'd stay by my side until we were old and gray?"
Her words crumble as she goes on. "You were the one who sold me that dream. You were the one who said we'd sit on a porch somewhere at eighty, yelling at the birds and annoying the neighbors."
A rough, broken laugh slips out of her but dies quickly.
"I only agreed to marry you because you were so damn confident we'd get there," she says, voice shaking. "But you're not here now. You're not here fulfilling that promise, and I'm still..." She sucks in a breath that stutters. "I'm still trying to figure out how to do this without you."
She presses her hand flat against the stone as if trying to reach through it.
"I miss you so much," she whispers.
My throat closes up.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to breathe slow. I can't fall apart. Not when Mom's barely holding herself together.
Caroline steps closer, slipping her hand into mine. I grip it back, grateful, grounding myself. When I glance at her from thecorner of my eye, she's quietly wiping her tears with a tissue she brought, trying not to draw attention to herself.
