The chapel felt colder than it should have. November had arrived with its usual sharp teeth, but the chill I felt that morning had nothing to do with the weather. I stood in the doorway watching the funeral director arrange white lilies around George’s mahogany casket, their perfume too sweet, too insistent, as if trying to mask something death itself couldn’t hide.

“Mrs. Holloway?” His voice was gentle, practiced. “We can wait a few more minutes if you’d like. Sometimes people run a bit late.”

I glanced at the rows of empty chairs stretching behind me like an accusation. Twenty-four seats, polished oak, cushioned in deep burgundy. Not a single body filled them. Not our son Peter. Not our daughter Celia. Not one grandchild. Just me in my black dress that George always said made my eyes look like storm clouds, standing alone while the wind rattled the stained-glass windows.

“No,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Start the service. George hated tardiness.”

Even in his final weeks, when the cancer had hollowed him out until he was more shadow than substance, he’d insisted on routine. Pills at eight sharp. The evening news at six. Slippers placed side by side before bed, as if order could somehow hold back the chaos of dying. He was a man built on structure, on dignity, on showing up when you said you would.Our children had learned none of these things.