Daniel noticed him a few minutes later.

“What is he doing?”

“I don't know.”

“This is Jack's funeral.”

“I know.”

Daniel started to stand.

I grabbed his sleeve.

“Don't.”

“He's wearing a dress.”

“I can see that.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Daniel's face was raw from seventeen days of barely sleeping. Mine probably looked much the same.

Grief makes you impatient with anything you can't immediately understand. Every unfamiliar thing feels like one more burden when you're already carrying more than you can bear.

Then the funeral director announced Theo's name for the eulogy.

I'd forgotten he was supposed to speak.

Theo stood, and the whispers followed him all the way to the microphone.

Now he was staring at the coffin.

He pulled the microphone closer.

“About six months ago, Jack and I were watching this terrible movie in his room.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“He said it was a classic. It was not.”

A few of Jack's friends laughed softly.

Theo continued.

“He'd just gotten back from another scan. His parents weren't home yet.”

I looked at Daniel.

I remembered that scan.

The results had been bad. Not officially hopeless, but bad enough that the doctor had started using phrases like “next-line treatment” and “managing expectations.”

Theo took a breath.

“Jack asked me if I'd speak at his funeral.”

The air seemed to leave my chest.

Daniel slowly sat down.

Theo looked toward us.

“I told him to shut up.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I was mad at him for even saying it.”

Then he laughed through his tears.

“I told him, ‘I'll speak at your funeral when you show up to mine wearing a dress.’”

Several people smiled.

I couldn't.

Somehow, I already knew where this was going.

Theo looked down at the red fabric.

“Jack said, ‘Fine. Then you have to wear one to mine.’”

He shook his head.

“I told him absolutely not.”

He paused.

“Then he said red.”

My hands began to shake.

“Specifically red. Because he said black makes me look like an undertaker.”

Someone behind me laughed, then immediately began to cry.

Theo's voice weakened.

“I told him there wasn't going to be a funeral.”

He stopped.

This time, he couldn't hide his tears.

“I said he was going to get better.”

The room went completely silent.

“He said, ‘Probably.’”

Theo wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“But then he made me promise.”

I couldn't breathe.

Jack had never told us about this conversation.

Not once.

He'd asked whether his hair would grow back. Whether he could still go to college. Whether we'd let him travel if the treatment worked.

He talked about the future so often that I'd convinced myself he believed in it as desperately as I needed him to.

But six months before his death, my son had made his best friend promise what to wear to his funeral.

Theo looked at the coffin.

“I thought if I didn't promise, he'd think I was scared.”

His chin trembled.

“I was scared.”

Then he reached into the pocket of the dress.

Yes. The ridiculous thing had pockets.

Jack would have appreciated that.

Theo unfolded a small piece of paper.

“This is why I didn't just ignore him.”

He held it carefully between his fingers.

“Jack wrote it down.”

My head snapped toward him.

Theo looked at me.

“Mrs. Harris, I'm sorry. I should've told you before today. I just... I couldn't.”