He looked at us.

“He knew before most of us were willing to know.”

I closed my eyes.

He knew he might die.

The words hurt even though we'd already buried him.

“And somehow, he still spent half his time trying to make everybody else less afraid.”

Theo touched the red dress.

“This wasn't Jack making fun of me.”

He paused.

“Okay, it was partly Jack making fun of me.”

More laughter.

“But mostly, I think he wanted one last thing he could control.”

Those words landed harder than anything else he'd said.

Cancer had taken control away from Jack piece by piece.

His school. His hair. His appetite. His privacy. His plans.

Eventually, even his ability to walk without help.

But he'd chosen this.

A red dress.

A promise.

A joke that had waited six months for its punch line.

Theo looked down at himself.

“So this is for Jack.”

He took a breath.

“I hate it.”

From the back of the room, his sister called, “You look great!”

The room erupted.

Even I laughed.

Theo shook his head.

“Thank you, Emma.”

Then he looked at the coffin one final time.

“You win, idiot.”

And stepped away from the microphone.

After the service, everyone wanted to talk to Theo.

That was almost funny, considering how many of those same people had stared at him when he'd walked through the door.

Daniel's brother approached first.

“Theo.”

Theo looked nervous.

My brother-in-law cleared his throat.

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“I was judging you before you even sat down.”

Theo shrugged.

“It's okay.”

“No,” my brother-in-law said. He glanced toward Jack's coffin. “It isn't.”

Then he held out his hand.

Theo shook it.

Others followed. Some hugged him. Some told him Jack would have loved what he'd done.

One elderly aunt approached and said, “I still don't understand boys today, but your speech was beautiful.”

Theo answered, “Honestly, that's fair.”

For the first time all day, I saw something close to the Theo I'd always known.

Later, after most people had moved to the reception hall, Theo found me standing alone beside the photographs we'd displayed of Jack.

One showed the two boys at eight years old, covered in mud from head to toe, missing shoes, and grinning like criminals.

Theo stood beside me.

“I need to tell you something.”

I turned toward him.

“What?”

“Jack didn't want you to know.”

My stomach tightened.

“Know what?”

“That he thought he was going to die.”

I stared at the photograph.

Theo hurried to explain.

“Not because he didn't trust you.”

“I know.”

“He said you and Mr. Harris needed hope.”

That hurt.

He was the one who was sick.

“I told him that,” Theo said.

“What did he say?”

Theo smiled sadly.

“He said, ‘Yeah, but Mom's dramatic.’”

I laughed through my tears.

“That little jerk.”

“He loved you.”

“I know.”

Theo was quiet for a moment.

“He wasn't pretending to be hopeful.”

That mattered more than I could explain.

I looked at him.

“He wanted college. He wanted to travel. He really thought the treatment might work.”

Then Theo added, “He just knew it might not.”

Both things could be true.

Hope and fear.

My eighteen-year-old son had somehow learned that before I did.

I asked Theo, “Did he talk about dying often?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Maybe three times.”

I nodded, trying to absorb that.

“Was he scared?”

Theo didn't answer immediately.

That was answer enough.