At the time, I laughed.
Now those words settled somewhere deep inside me, heavier than I wanted to admit.
“I’ll be there,” I whispered.
I had no idea how much would change before I could keep that promise.
The Funeral
Friday arrived beneath a sky covered in gray clouds.
By the time I reached the church, more than two hundred people had gathered to say goodbye to my father.
Former employees from Hail Mechanical stood beside neighbors, distant relatives, old friends, and people I had never met before. Yet almost everyone had a story.
One man remembered Dad repairing his furnace during a winter storm when every other company had refused to come out.
A woman told me Dad had quietly paid her heating bill one year when her husband lost his job.
Another former employee said Dad had given him his first real chance when no one else would hire him.
Standing there, surrounded by all those stories, I realized something.
My father had built much more than a successful business.
He had built loyalty.
Mark, meanwhile, played the role of the grieving son-in-law perfectly.
He shook hands.
Carried flowers.
Thanked guests.
Whenever someone hugged me, he placed a supportive hand on my shoulder or held my elbow as if he were afraid I might collapse.
From the outside, we looked like the picture of a devoted couple.
But I noticed what no one else did.
The questions hidden beneath his concern.
Twice during the service, Mark leaned toward me.
“Did Samuel mention when the will is being read?”
The first time, I pretended I hadn’t heard him.
The second time, I simply looked away.
After the burial, everyone gathered at Dad’s house for coffee and sandwiches.
I moved through the rooms carrying trays and thanking people for coming.
That was when I noticed Melissa.
She was walking through Dad’s kitchen with a confidence that made me uncomfortable.
“I forgot how nice this place is,” she said as she opened one of the cabinets.
She spoke casually, almost absentmindedly.
As though she were touring a property.
Across the room, Diane stood near the living-room window.
“If Clare sells,” she said, “this neighborhood won’t stay affordable for long.”
I stopped.
I was carrying a tray of coffee mugs.
Neither of them realized I had heard every word.
Before I could respond, Mark appeared beside me and slipped an arm around my shoulders.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m tired.”
He smiled softly.
“Just one more day,” he whispered. “Tomorrow we’ll finally know everything.”
Everything.
The word stayed with me.
Because tomorrow wasn’t about money to me.
It was about hearing my father’s voice one last time through whatever plans he had made before he died.
But apparently, for other people, tomorrow meant something entirely different.
Saturday Morning
Mark was already dressed when I came downstairs.
Suit.
Polished shoes.
Leather portfolio.
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