And I stood there trying to be the son everyone expected me to be.
Strong.
Helpful.
Still standing.
My father, Raymond Mercer, was sixty-six. They said he had suffered a heart attack in his study and was gone before the ambulance arrived.
For three days, I had chosen flowers, signed documents, comforted my mother, and convinced myself grief was the only thing happening.
Then the gravedigger stopped me.
“Your father paid me,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Paid you for what?”
He looked over his shoulder before leaning closer.
“To bury an empty coffin.”
For a moment, my mind refused to accept the words.
“My father is dead,” I said. “I saw him.”
The man’s expression did not change.
“You saw what he wanted you to see.”
I almost stepped back.
Some sentences are so impossible that your mind rejects them before fear can even begin.
Then he pressed something cold into my palm.
