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An older woman from one of Catherine’s committees approached and took my hand in both of hers.

“Richard, sweetheart, I am so sorry,” she said. “Your mother was such a presence.”

“She was.”

“She spoke of you often.”

That was vague enough to avoid being a lie. Catherine had spoken of me often. Usually with contempt, suspicion, or disappointment.

“I appreciate you being here.” I said.

The woman’s eyes grew wet. “And Leonard. My God. Such a terrible shock. It doesn’t seem real.”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”

She squeezed my hand before moving on, and Samantha leaned closer after she left.

“She seemed very fond of your mother.”

“They served on charity boards together.”

“Your mother must’ve had a lot of friends.”

“She had people who knew it was better to stay on her good side.”

Samantha looked toward the caskets. “That sounds lonely.”

“She liked it.”

She watched me for a moment. I gave her enough sadness to keep her from asking the next question.

The service began a few minutes later. The pastor spoke about legacy, devotion, family, and the sudden nature of loss. He had not known my parents well enough to say anything honest about them. Dead people improved in direct proportion to the number of witnesses in the room.

Leonard became devoted. Catherine became gracious. Their marriage became admirable. Their house became a home filled with love, which would have amused every staff member they had ever mistreated and underpaid.

I sat in the front pew with Samantha’s hand in mine and listened while a stranger gave my parents better characters than they’d earned.

She squeezed my fingers during the prayer.

I lowered my head.

Carbon monoxide leak was the best option to rid myself of them. They had gone to bed and never woke up. Accidents just like Caroline.

Samantha turned her face toward me when the pastor spoke about a son losing both parents in one night. Her eyes were wet. She was grieving for me because she thought I couldn’t do it for myself.

I let my face tighten once and played the part of a grieving son.

By the time the service ended, several people were in tears. Performative. Half these fuckers should have been as grateful as I was that they were gone.

Samantha didn’t leave my side when we stood. I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. Several people watched. Samantha noticed and looked down, embarrassed, but she didn’t pull away.

We exited the church and got into the car. The reception was held at the country club. Staff moved through the room with trays while men in dark suits gathered near the bar and women spoke softly beside the windows. Everyone used the same three words.

Terrible.

Sudden.

Tragic.