“My father is gone,” my daughter said into the microphone. “So Ryan and I decided it was time for Noah to have his real family name.”
For a second, I thought grief had made me misunderstand her.
We were standing inside the funeral home on a Friday night, less than forty-eight hours after my husband’s death.
Michael’s photograph was behind Lauren, surrounded by white lilies and framed by the stupid navy tie he wore to every company Christmas dinner because he claimed it made him look ten years younger.
More than sixty people had come to the visitation.
Employees.
Suppliers.
Neighbors.
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