By the time the funeral was nearly over, I had already prepared myself to leave with the same painful version of the past I had carried for two years. Troy was gone, our marriage was over, and the questions I had once begged him to answer no longer seemed answerable.
Then his father, Walter, asked me to stay for a moment.
He looked fragile standing beside the empty rows of chairs, one hand gripping the back of a seat as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes were red, and when he spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper.
“You think you know what happened,” he said. “But you don’t.”