I did not accuse him.
I did not ask who the woman was.
I stood in the living room with one hand wrapped around my phone and stared at the urn above the fireplace.
The funeral home had offered me three choices.
A dark wooden box, a blue ceramic urn with painted flowers, and the plain white one I finally chose because Gertrude had always hated anything she called “fussy.”
Christopher had no idea she was dead.
He had no idea I had signed the cremation papers, chosen the service time, called the few friends she still had, and folded the navy dress she had once asked to be buried in before learning that cremation would make the choice unnecessary.
He had no idea I had sat alone at our kitchen table with a paper coffee cup gone cold, answering questions that should have belonged to her son.
“Are you even listening to me?” he demanded.
