My father was a controlled man. Even shattered, he would not let chaos erupt beside his daughter’s body. He refused to give Ethan the spectacle he seemed to crave.
But Ethan had already made himself the center of attention.
Vanessa leaned her head against his shoulder like a widow. Like she had stepped into Claire’s place without hesitation.
My vision blurred with heat. I studied Ethan’s profile — calm, composed, almost bored. And I wondered how a man could perform grief while holding the woman he had chosen over his wife.
The pastor began speaking about Claire. About her generosity. Her stubborn kindness. The way she laughed too loudly at bad jokes. He spoke about the baby she had already named Caleb — because she said the name meant faithful, and she believed in the power of hope.
Tears fell. Hymns rose softly through the sanctuary. And Ethan sat there, fingers laced with Vanessa’s, wearing sorrow like a jacket he could remove later.
I tried to focus on the memories — Claire decorating the nursery, Claire crying quietly in my kitchen one night, Claire brushing off bruises on her arm as “clumsy accidents.”
But my gaze kept drifting back to them.