I went to bu:ry my father… and found my husband’s mistress sitting in the front row, wearing my missing Versace like it belonged to her.

The words echoed. I heard them hit the stone and wood and stained glass and come back bigger.

Grant stood up.

“Natalie,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Stop.”

The irony was so sharp it nearly made me laugh. Stop. After a year of lies, now he wanted timing.

Aunt Helen, blessed woman, slid into the aisle like she’d been waiting her whole life for this specific assignment. She folded her arms and planted herself at the end of the pew. Grant looked at her, looked at the people turning to stare, and slowly sat back down.

I kept going.