At my 6-year-old granddaughter’s funeral, I leaned over her casket to say a final goodbye. Then I heard a faint, desperate scrape from inside. “Daddy said if I woke up, I would ruin everything,” she whispered. I froze. My son and his wife had told everyone she died from a sudden contagion. I pried the lid open. As I lifted my breathing grandchild, heavy footsteps rushed down the stairs…
It was almost eleven o’clock at night. My son Julian’s elegant home outside Chicago had gone completely quiet, with Chloe’s casket sitting in the middle of the living room among white lilies, candles, and flowers sent by people who believed she had died from a sudden respiratory illness.
Julian and his wife, Victoria, had already gone upstairs. They said they were exhausted. They said they needed sleep before the funeral the next morning. They said I should go home too.
