Richard lay on his back, hands folded as if he’d fallen asleep mid-thought. His face looked peaceful. Almost younger, without the tension he carried in daylight.
Peggy said his name softly.
No response.
She stepped closer, heart tightening, and touched his shoulder.
Cold.
Not icy, but unmistakably wrong.
The coffee cup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the hardwood floor.
For a moment, she didn’t move. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even cry.
Shock has its own quiet.
The doctor later said it was instantaneous. Massive heart attack. No suffering.
Peggy stood by the bed and felt an odd detachment—shock, yes, grief, yes, but beneath it something she didn’t want to name: relief.
Relief that the long years of walking on eggshells, of performance and politeness and never being quite enough, might be over.
She hated herself for thinking it.
She buried the feeling under duty, because duty was what she did best.
The funeral was enormous. Boston turned up for Richard Morrison the attorney—judges, colleagues, former clients, society figures. The church filled with expensive coats and quiet murmurs.
Steven, Catherine, and Michael sat in the front row with spouses and children, a united image of grief.