Across the aisle, Uncle Robert was already making his way through the family.
He hugged cousins, squeezed shoulders, kissed foreheads.
Robert had always been good at making people feel important.
He had taught me how to ride a bicycle.
When I was nineteen and stranded on the side of the road with a dead car battery, he was the first person I called.
He had slipped twenty-dollar bills into my hand more times than I could count.
I trusted him.
Then again, Grandma had the same gift.
Eleven grandchildren had grown up believing each of us was secretly her favorite.
The organist began playing.
My eyes drifted toward Mom.
No one had spoken to her at the wake.
Not her brother.
Not her sisters.
Not even the cousins who had once climbed onto her lap when they were children.
For twenty-five years, I had accepted that silence without completely understanding it.
Mom rarely discussed what had happened.
I knew there had been money missing from Grandpa Frank’s safe.
I knew everyone believed my mother had taken it.
And I knew she had left the family shortly afterward, taking three-year-old me with her.
But she never defended herself.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
Then the funeral director stepped toward Grandma’s casket.
He was preparing to close it when a thought hit me so violently that I stood.
The handbag.
My stomach dropped.
“We forgot the bag.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Emily, sit down.”
“She asked me to put it with her.”
“The cars are already waiting.”
“She made me promise.”
Uncle Robert turned around immediately.
“Sweetheart, this isn’t the time.”
Then he stood.
