I never expected to bury my child. It’s the most unnatural thing in the world, standing beside the polished mahogany casket of your son, watching as they lower it into the ground while you remain above, your heart still beating when his has stopped forever. Richard was only thirty-eight years old.
I am sixty-two.
This was not how life was supposed to unfold. The April rain fell in a steady drizzle as we huddled under black umbrellas at Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn.
I stood alone, separated from the other mourners by an invisible barrier of grief that no one dared cross. Across from me stood Amanda, my daughter-in-law, her perfect makeup unmarred by tears, her black Chanel dress more appropriate for a gallery opening than a funeral.
She’d been married to Richard for barely three years, yet somehow she had become the center of this ghastly ceremony while I, who had raised him alone after his father died when Richard was just twelve, was relegated to the periphery like a distant acquaintance.
“Mrs. Thompson.” A man in a somber charcoal suit approached me as the last mourners began drifting toward their cars, their umbrellas bobbing like black mushrooms across the wet grass. “I’m Jeffrey Palmer from Palmer Woodson and Hayes.
I was Richard’s attorney.
The reading of the will is scheduled to take place at the residence in two hours. Your presence is required.”
“At the penthouse?
Today?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice, my words forming small clouds in the cold air. “Isn’t that rather sudden?”
“Mrs.
Conrad—” he began, using Amanda’s preferred surname before catching himself and correcting, “Mrs.
Thompson insisted we proceed without delay. She was quite emphatic about it.”
Of course she was. I had never understood what my brilliant, kind-hearted son saw in Amanda Conrad.
She was a former catalog model turned lifestyle influencer whose Instagram following numbered in the millions—every post a carefully curated display of wealth, beauty, and the appearance of effortless perfection.
She’d arrived in Richard’s life like a heat-seeking missile, appearing at a charity gala he’d attended reluctantly. Within six months of meeting him, she’d moved into his Central Park West penthouse.
Within a year, they were married in a ceremony that cost more than most people’s houses. I’d tried to be supportive because Richard seemed happy, and after losing his father to cancer five years earlier, he deserved whatever joy he could find.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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