Chapter Three: The Words She Couldn't Say
I'd never written anything so painful in my life.
The eulogy sat on my lap, the paper stained from where my tears had fallen the night I wrote it. I stayed up for hours, rereading every word, deleting, rewriting, trying to make it perfect—for Parker. For everyone who needed to hear who he was before the silence stole him.
I didn't sleep. I couldn't.
The next morning, I dressed in black, smoothed my blouse, and folded the eulogy into my pocket. I was supposed to read it. I had practiced in front of a mirror, my voice cracking every time I said his name.
But when the time came—when the priest nodded at me and everyone turned to look—I froze.
My mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
I stared at the paper, then at the casket, and all I saw was the jacket I found on his bed. Like a ghost whispering that he hadn't really left.
My cousin, Jason, gently reached for the paper. I let it go without a word. He read it instead.
My voice remained buried.