He unfolded the note.

“It says, ‘Theo, if you're reading this because I died, first of all, that's embarrassing for me.’”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Real laughter.

Painful, but real.

It sounded exactly like Jack.

Theo continued reading.

“‘Second, you promised. Red dress. Don't chicken out just because my relatives are judgmental.’”

Daniel made a sound beside me that was half sob, half laugh.

Theo glanced toward Daniel's brother.

This time, several people laughed.

Then Theo's expression changed.

“‘Third, don't let my funeral be the first time you lie to me just because I'm not there to call you out.’”

He lowered the paper.

“I almost didn't come.”

I stared at him.

“My dad told me not to wear it. My mom said people would misunderstand. My sister told me I was insane.”

He glanced down at the dress.

“But she gave it to me anyway.”

A young woman near the back covered her mouth.

Theo's sister. I'd barely noticed her.

He looked directly at me.

“I didn't want to upset you.”

That was what broke me.

Because he'd been sitting ten feet away, terrified of hurting us, while I'd been wondering whether to have him removed from the room.

I stood.

Daniel looked at me, uncertain.

I walked toward Theo.

He froze.

For one horrible second, I think he believed I was coming to take him away from the microphone.

Instead, I hugged him.

He was taller than me now.

When had that happened?

I'd known this boy since he had missing teeth and scraped knees. Now he folded into me and began sobbing.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“No.”

“I should've told you.”

“No.”

“I didn't mean to make today worse.”

“You didn't.”

I held the back of his head.

“Finish it.”

He pulled away, wiping his face.

“Are you sure?”

“Finish what Jack asked you to say.”

Then I returned to my seat.

Daniel was crying openly now.

Theo stood at the microphone again.

He glanced at the note, then carefully folded it.

“I actually wrote a eulogy,” he said.

He lifted several pages from the podium.

“Seven pages.”

A voice from among Jack's school friends called out, “Jeez, Theo.”

Theo laughed.

“Exactly. Jack would've hated it.”

He put the pages aside.

“So I'm not reading it.”

Instead, he talked about my son.

Not about cancer.

Not mostly.

He told everyone about the time they were twelve and accidentally broke our garage window with a hockey puck. They'd spent three hours inventing increasingly ridiculous explanations before finally blaming a bird.

Daniel had asked, “What kind of bird carries a hockey puck?”

Jack had answered, “A strong one.”

The room laughed.

Theo told everyone about Jack cheating at Monopoly and insisting it wasn't cheating because “the bank has insurance.”

He talked about the first day of high school, when Theo had a panic attack in the bathroom. Jack sat on the floor outside the stall, pretending they were deliberately skipping class.

Then Theo grew quieter.

“When Jack got sick, everybody started calling him brave.”

He looked down.

“He hated that.”

I knew he did.

Jack once told me, “Mom, if one more adult tells me I'm brave while putting a needle in me, I'm going to become violent.”

Theo gave a faint, tearful smile.

“He said being sick wasn't brave. It was just happening to him.”

His hands tightened around the podium.

“But I think there was one thing he was brave about.”