“You did save someone, Ms.
Margaret. You saved me.”
We talked, carefully, like people finding their way back to something lost.
Before he left, he turned to me again.
“Stay in Montana a little longer,” he said.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to say I needed to get home. But the truth was, there was nothing there for me. Robert and I barely spoke.
So I nodded.
The funeral was something else… beautiful, even. People passed like ghosts, murmuring prayers I didn’t hear. I kept staring at the edge of his cuff — Danny never wore that color — and it felt like waiting in line for something I couldn’t take back.
I stood beside the casket while people filed past with soft hands and sorry eyes.
The pastor spoke of peace, of light, and of letting go, but all I heard was the sound of dirt hitting wood.
My son had laughed just like Robert when he was younger. He used to draw spaceships and spell “astronaut” with three t’s. And now, he was just…
gone.
Robert barely met my eyes. At the gravesite, he gripped the shovel like it was the only thing holding him upright. We were grieving the same person, but he moved like a man trying not to fall apart in public.
But I couldn’t stay in Danny’s house.
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