“OPEN THE CASKET. NOW.” The Housekeeper’s scream stopped my mother’s funeral cold — my wife grabbed my arm and whispered, “Don’t believe her…” That was the moment my entire world began to unravel.

“Your mother needs ‘proper care,’ Andrew,” she’d say.
“She forgets things.”
“She shouldn’t handle her own medications anymore.”
“She’s fragile. Let me help manage everything.”

I’d believed her.
I had trusted her.

And now the consequences were staring me in the face.

The electric screwdriver buzzed—each screw being removed from the casket felt like another piece of my sanity falling away.

Looking at Melissa, I saw fear for the first time. Not grief—fear. She kept checking her phone, typing frantically.

I thought of the last few months. My mother had become weak, drowsy, confused. Whenever I questioned it, Melissa always had an answer.

“It’s age, Andrew.”
“She’s tired.”
“The doctor adjusted her medicine.”

What doctor?
I never met him.
Melissa always handled the visits.

Rosa had come to me once, months ago, her hands shaking.

“Andrew… the pills aren’t good for your mother. On the days she misses them, she’s alert. She remembers things. She talks. Something’s wrong.”

And like a fool, I dismissed her.

“You’re not a nurse, Rosa. Stop worrying.”

Now regret pressed on my throat like a stone.

The last screw fell.

The funeral attendant looked at me, waiting for permission.

I nodded.

The lid lifted.