The chapel was cold, unnaturally so, a sterile chill that settled deep in my bones. November’s gray sky pressed against the windows, but it wasn’t the weather weighing on me—it was absence. I stood near the doorway as the funeral director arranged white lilies around George’s mahogany casket, their sweet fragrance clashing with the reality of loss. Every movement was precise, almost mechanical, too professional for a man whose life had been lived with quiet integrity.
“Mrs. Holloway,” the director said gently, “we can wait a little longer if you need—”
“No,” I replied, voice steady despite the ache. “Start the service. George believed in being on time.”
I glanced at the empty rows of burgundy chairs. Twenty-four seats. No children. No grandchildren. Just empty space, neatly aligned, a silent indictment.
The pastor spoke. His words floated through the chapel, generic platitudes meant to comfort strangers. Memories. Legacy. Peace. But he didn’t know George. He hadn’t seen him build our home board by board, fix anything with patience, or live by loyalty as a practice. I sat there alone, listening to a life summarized for an audience that didn’t exist.
That morning, our son sent a text: “Sorry, Mom. Something came up. Can’t make it.” Our daughter hadn’t even managed that much—she posted brunch photos instead: champagne, bright smiles, captions about self-care and living her best life. Their father’s funeral? Not worth a proper goodbye.
I buried my husband alone.
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