I never expected to bury my child. It’s the most unnatural thing in the world, standing beside the polished mahogany casket of your son, watching as they lower it into the ground while you remain above.
Richard was only 38. I am 62. This was not how it was supposed to be.
The April rain fell in a steady drizzle as we huddled under black umbrellas at Greenwood Cemetery. I stood alone, separated from the other mourners by an invisible barrier of grief that no one dared cross. Across from me stood Amanda, my daughter-in-law, her perfect makeup unmarred by tears, her black Chanel dress more appropriate for a cocktail party than a funeral. She’d been married to Richard for barely 3 years. Yet somehow she’d become the center of this ghastly ceremony, while I, who had raised him alone after his father died, was relegated to the periphery.
