My daughter, Nora, held my hand through the service.
She was twenty-six, old enough to understand most of what I had told her, young enough that some of it had genuinely frightened her.
She had cried when I told her about Catherine.
She had gone very quiet when I told her about Gerald.
After the service, she found me by the car.
“Mom.” She looked at me carefully.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly.
She nodded like that was the right answer.
We drove to Miriam’s house afterward — a small gathering, just family, which now meant something different than it had two weeks ago.
Miriam had made food.
Someone had brought flowers.
Nora sat with Miriam at the kitchen table and asked her questions about Frank when he was young, and Miriam answered each one with the particular care of someone who has been waiting a long time to be asked.
