Choosing Myself: A Story of Loss, Boundaries, and Legacy
The chapel was cold—bone-deep, unnatural. November gray pressed against the stained-glass windows, but it wasn’t the weather that weighed on me. It was the emptiness.
George’s mahogany casket sat polished and still, white lilies arranged perfectly, their sweetness mocking the finality of death. Every movement of the funeral director was precise, rehearsed, professional—too perfect for a man who had lived quietly, honorably, with integrity.
“Mrs. Holloway,” the director whispered, “we can wait if you need—”
“No,” I said, voice steady. “Start the service. George believed in being on time.”
I glanced at the chairs. Twenty-four empty seats. No son. No daughter. Not a single grandchild. Just absence, lined up like a silent verdict.
The pastor spoke, but his words were hollow: peace, legacy, memories. He didn’t know George. He didn’t know the man who built our home, repaired everything with patience, lived loyalty as a practice. I listened, alone, to someone summarizing a life he never touched, for an audience that didn’t exist.
That morning, our son had texted seven words: “Sorry, Mom. Something came up.” Our daughter? Not even that. She posted brunch pictures instead—champagne, selfies, captions about living her best life. Their father’s funeral was at ten. They chose convenience over goodbye.
I buried my husband alone.
At the graveside, wind stirred leaves across fresh soil. George was lowered by strangers who had never met him. I stayed behind, heels sinking into the dirt, whispering apologies I didn’t owe. Sorry they didn’t come. Sorry I hadn’t done more to make them care.
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