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I do. His eyes are blue and steady, and there’s something in them I’ve never seen before—not quite tenderness, something harder, more durable. The look of a man who’s buried people he loved and knows exactly what this feels like.

“We’ll get through this together,” he says. The words are so simple, yet more comforting than I know how to express.

The ropes creak as the coffin is lowered. My fist closes around the rosary until the crucifix bites into my palm, and with each inch the coffin descends, something in me descends with it.

Some last, desperate hope that this is a mistake. That Dr. Morgan will call. That Mom will open her eyes. That this has all been a nightmare I’ll wake up from.

The coffin reaches the bottom of the grave with a soft, final thud that seems to travel up through the soles of my shoes and into my bones.

This is real. She’s really gone. The box in the ground contains my mom, and I will never see her again, never brush her hair again, never talk to her about anything. A sound escapes me—not quite a sob, something rawer, torn from somewhere deep inside me.

The rest of the funeral unfolds in a series of small events. When I focus on them individually, it doesn’t feel as all-consuming.

Walk to the coffin, I can do that.

Grab some dirt, I can do that.

Throw it onto the coffin, I can do that.

Wait at the side while Father Joseph ends the ceremony, I can do that.

Watch people disperse while forcing a smile, I can do that.

And now, the burial is over, which means it’s time for the funeral reception. But rather than thinking about it like a long day I have to get through, while making small talk with well-meaning strangers, I focus on walking back to the car.

When we reach it, Vinny, Carly, and Gio are already there, waiting with identical expressions of concern carefully masked into something more neutral.

“Hey,” Carly says softly.

Holding up my hand, I shake my head. “P-please don’t,” I stutter.

“Want to hear a dirty joke?” Gio asks, grinning at me.

The offer is so unexpected that a startled laugh bursts out of me. I can’t say I’ve ever thought much about him, but right now, he might be among my top ten humans. Ever.

I’m still smiling when we return to the church and walk into the parish hall for the funeral reception.

The parish hall smells of coffee and casseroles, which is somehow both comforting and too much. I stand near the punch bowl with Domenico as I smile at the fourteenth person who’s told me how much they loved my mom, and my face hurts from the effort.

Mrs. Kowalski grips both my hands, her eyes red and swimming, and says something I don’t catch because the words started blurring together about an hour ago. But I nod anyway and smile harder.

Domenico’s thumb traces a slow circle against my spine, and I lean into the touch because it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

The hall is packed, and every folding table is covered in dishes people brought because bringing food is what you do when words fail. The coffee urn steams in the corner.

“Thank you for coming,” I say to the fifteenth person, and the phrase has worn smooth from repetition, like a stone in a river.

Carly appears from nowhere, intercepting the sixteenth before they reach me. Her voice is low, so I don’t know what she says. But whatever it is, it works.

“You don’t have to do this,” Domenico murmurs against my ear.

“I know,” I say, even though he’s wrong.

I have to do this, but not for the mourners. This is for Mom. She’d want me to stand here and accept their kindness, even if it feels like being slowly sanded down.

Two hours in, my chest is so tight I can’t breathe. The walls feel closer. Every “I’m so sorry” lands like a pebble on a pile that’s already collapsing, and I’m running out of room to put them.

“I need air,” I whisper. My voice comes out thinner than I meant it to.