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My hand settles against the polished wood. I try to speak his name, but my throat closes.

The last time I saw him, he ran beside my vehicle as I drove away. He waved both arms and shouted that he loved me.

I should have stopped.

I should have gotten out one more time.

I should have held him until he complained that I was squeezing too hard.

Instead, I rolled down the window and told him I loved him too.

Then I left.

I move to James.

My little boy had Cathy’s smile and my black hair. He wanted a horse for his birthday, even though he was scared of my mother’s old mare. He told me he would be brave when he turned five.

He will never turn five.

My hand drops from the casket.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Mom begins crying behind me.

I force myself to look at Cathy’s casket.

We were happy once.

Maybe we were still happy before I left. I don’t know anymore. Our last conversation was an argument. She wanted me to leave the team. She was tired of raising our children alone and wondering whether I was coming home in a casket.

I told her I had one more assignment.

She said there was always one more.

Then I walked out.

Those were some of the last words I said to my wife.

Angry words.

Impatient words.

Words I can never take back.

After the funeral, everyone gathers at my mother’s house. Women carry food into the kitchen. Men I haven’t seen in years shake my hand and tell me how sorry they are.

I can’t breathe.

Everywhere I turn, someone wants to talk about Cathy or my boys.

Josh was such a good boy.

James had the sweetest smile.

Cathy loved you so much.

Their sympathy suffocates me.