The funeral was a blur, a hazy memory, too heavy to bear. I remember the scent of lilies mingling with the damp earth, the murmur of voices, and the stifled sobs of my children. I stand frozen here, as people perhaps pay their respects. Liam’s colleagues, their faces wet with tears, whispered anecdotes about his sense of responsibility, his habit of always double-checking locks, and how he filled up the tank before it dropped below half full.
“You were so lucky to have him,” they said, their words like lead balloons sinking ever deeper into my chest. My sister was beside me, her hand clasped in mine, holding tissues I never used. I had no more tears; it felt like my heart had run dry.
Then there were our children, clinging to me like a lifebuoy. Our seven-year-old daughter buried her face in my shoulder, while our five-year-old son squeezed my hand, his little fingers trembling. I felt so fragile, as if I might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. I was afraid that if I let go, if I allowed myself to breathe too deeply, I too would disappear.
A ghost in my own life
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