It is said that a mother dies a thousand times when she buries her own child.
Well, she felt nothing.
Maybe a little out of place. But no pain. No grief. Nothing that felt real.
On the way there, she kept telling herself it would hit eventually. That the moment she arrived, something inside her would crack open.
But standing there now, she felt like an impostor in someone else's tragedy.
And that began to anger her.
Why doesn't it hurt? she wondered.
Of course, she was at the funeral.
She could hear the muffled cries of neighbors and friends. Even the dogs by the gate were whining. And yet, all she could think about was whether Ethan was cold in that casket, because he hated the cold. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he loved the fur-lined coats more. Who could tell?
Did they at least put makeup on him? Or his favorite tiara? Ethan was nothing if not a queen.
He choked.
She almost scoffed aloud at the memory of her husband telling her their only son had choked to death.
On a piece of bread.
Dead from your favorite meal. What a cruel way to go.
"Gretchen?"
A voice called from behind her. She turned slightly, realizing she was the only one still standing. The mass was about to begin.
Ethan didn't even like church. What was her husband thinking?
She turned fully this time and saw Riley, her editor, offering her a sad, careful smile.
"I think we should sit down now," Riley said gently, guiding her toward an empty space on one of the benches.
As Gretchen reached it, an older woman spoke in a hushed tone.
"Your place is over there with your family, dear."
Family.
The word echoed strangely in her mind as she followed the direction of the woman's gaze to the front row.
Then the woman took Gretchen's hands in her trembling ones.
"I'm so sorry you have to go through this, my dear. May our Lord and Savior give you strength for this one too."
Gretchen blinked at her.
"You know who I am? What I am to Ethan?"
The old woman didn't answer. She only smiled softly, her eyes drifting toward the altar.
Gretchen smiled back and, instead of moving, sat beside her, confusing both the woman and Riley, who quietly took a seat a few rows ahead.
"You knew Ethan?" Gretchen asked, almost eagerly.
The woman's face lit up.
"Who didn't know that boy?" she said warmly, gesturing around the packed church. "He touched every soul in here."
Gretchen swallowed hard, holding back something unfamiliar.
So he wasn't alone.
"Was he happy here?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
The woman turned to her, sadness softening her features.
"Not as happy as when he could get a hold of you."
The words landed heavier than anything else that day.
The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a worn photograph, Gretchen, five years younger, at one of Ethan's concerts.
"He couldn't bring you home with him," she said, handing it over. "So he let me keep this."
Gretchen stared at the photo.
"He loved you dearly."
Nausea twisted in her stomach.
He had missed her.
Then why hadn't he asked her to come sooner?
She looked away, scanning the room just to keep herself from unraveling, and realized she recognized almost everyone there.
Ethan had always been a storyteller.
With pictures.
Her breath caught when she spotted Matt standing at the back of the church, eyes glassy, grief held tightly in place.
Ethan used to call him a stubborn, homophobic asshole.
The same man he was hopelessly in love with.
Gretchen exhaled slowly.
Maybe, like Matt, she too was meant to grieve in silence.
She didn't like that thought.
Not one bit.
So she stood.
And began walking down the aisle.
Slowly.
She smiled at the stunned faces. Waved at a few. Even greeted some by name, people she only knew because Ethan had once told her about them.
The murmurs grew.
The reverend faltered.
This was not the time for a eulogy.
And yet, she kept walking.
Until she reached the casket.
She looked down at the boy lying inside and frowned.
Then, calmly, she pulled out her lipstick and drew color across the glass, right over his lips.
A correction.
She could feel Mike's glare burning into her.
That only made her bolder.
She turned to him slowly.
"What? Your new girlfriend didn't have a lipstick to spare for my son?"
Mike's jaw tightened. "Why are you here, Gretchen?"
She shrugged lightly. "To pay my respects."
A pause.
"Unless you think I'm not fit to say goodbye?"
She noticed the cameras then, already focused on them.
She smiled. Waved.
Then stepped closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper as she pointed at the casket.
"He might look like my son… but that's not him."
Mike said nothing. Just clenched his jaw.
She kissed both his cheeks, sweet and slow.
Then turned and walked toward the altar.
"I'm sorry for the interruption," she announced, her voice carrying through the stunned silence, "but today's funeral is postponed—until we find my son."
And with that, she walked out.
Riley hurried after her.
"Is the body really not your son's?" Riley asked carefully once they were outside.
Gretchen smiled.
"A mother knows, Riley."