The cardboard box for the condolence cards was still in my hands when Daniel said:
—That’s exactly what Dad said you would do.
Richard had kept their last argument from me for four months. Now, my son was at his father’s funeral, dressed in an old pink suit, watching me organize everyone else’s grief.
By nine o’clock that morning, I had already corrected the spelling on a flower card, secured an extra chair for Richard’s elderly cousin, reminded the funeral director that my husband hated organ music, and answered the same question about the reception six times.
—Tisha, sit down —my sister said.
-I’m fine.
—You’ve been saying that all morning.
—Because I am.
He wasn’t.
Richard lay three meters away in a polished wooden coffin, and our only son hadn’t arrived yet.
Richard had been battling cancer for eleven months. For the last three, he could barely lift his teacup without using both hands.
Daniel should have been by our side.
In contrast, four months before Richard died, I came home from the pharmacy and found our wedding photograph smashed to pieces on the hallway floor.
Daniel was next to her with a suitcase, his face soaked with tears.
—I can’t believe you asked me for something like that!
Richard was holding onto the back of a chair to avoid falling.
—I have no other option.
Daniel’s face fell.
—Then you’ve lost your son!
He left the house.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, his car had already disappeared.
I went back inside and found Richard sitting on the stairs.
-What happened?
He looked at the torn photograph.
—This has to stay between Danny and me.
—He is also my son.
-I know.
—Then tell me.
Richard closed his eyes.
—Please, Tisha. Don’t ask me anything.
For the next four months, Daniel continued to answer when I called him, but all the conversations ended up hitting the same wall.
—Mom, I love you. But don’t ask me to forgive Dad.
I hated Richard for refusing to explain what had happened to me.
She hated Daniel for leaving.
But most of all, I hated myself because, while the two men I loved were destroying something between them, I had no idea what I was supposed to fix.
And fixing things used to be the only thing I knew how to do.
Then the doors of the chapel opened.
Daniel was there.
For half a second, I only saw my son.
Then I saw what she was wearing.
Rosa.
Not a shirt.
Not a strange suit.
A dress.
A faded pink dress that awkwardly reached below her knees stretched over her shoulders and looked even more absurd combined with her black dress shoes.
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Someone gasped.
—Daniel.
He looked at me.
I quickly went down the corridor.
—Danny, what are you doing?
He did not respond.
—Why are you dressed like that at your father’s funeral?
He looked at the coffin for a moment and then walked past me.
Directly towards Richard.
Daniel placed both hands on the coffin.
—I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.
He bent over the coffin and wept with a despair I hadn’t seen since he was a child.
No one whispered again.
I stayed behind him, paralyzed.
Whatever the meaning of that dress was, it wasn’t a joke.
After the service, people surrounded me.
—I’m so sorry, Tisha.
—Richard was a good man.
—Call me if you need anything.
I thanked everyone, found a coat that someone had lost, told the catering staff where to put the coffee, and carried a vase to the reception room.
—¿Tisha?
Richard’s sister was holding an empty box.
—Where do I put these condolence cards?
⏬Continued on the next page⏬
