The funeral home, with its sterile scent of lilies mingling with the chill of air conditioning, was a stage set for grief. At the front of the small American chapel, two tiny white coffins lay side by side on a low platform — one for Oliver, one for Lucas. They were seven months old. Five days ago, I had sat in the quiet of night, feeding them, caressing their soft skin. Now, pastel flowers replaced the toys that should have been strewn across the room.
The mourners moved past me in a slow, deliberate line. Each hand squeezed mine, each pair of lips whispered “I’m so sorry,” their voices muffled, as if coming from underwater. I nodded, an automatic response to a world that no longer made sense. Every blink conjured their faces, smiling up at me in the innocence of infancy.
Across the room, my mother-in-law, Diane, stood like the leading lady in some somber theater production. Clad in a black dress with a matching hat and a netted veil, she dabbed at her dry skin with a lace handkerchief, a portrait of stoic suffering. Relatives surrounded her, offering condolences as if she were the chief mourner.
