Some cried harder than I did.
I think I was too numb.
At the funeral, I stood beside Andrew’s mother, Clementine, and watched people line up to tell us what a wonderful man he had been.
I already knew.
Clementine barely spoke at the funeral.
That surprised me more than anything.
She had always been composed, but she was never cold.
Before Andrew died, she called me every few days.
Sometimes she wanted to ask about wedding details.
Sometimes she just wanted to talk.
She once spent 40 minutes debating whether ivory table linens looked warmer than white ones.
At the funeral, she looked like a different woman.
Her face seemed smaller.
Her shoulders curved inward.
Every time someone approached her, she gave the same distant nod.
Near the end of the service, she finally came over to me.
She hugged me once and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I held on longer than she did.
