“At my father’s graveside, the gravedigger gripped my arm and whispered, “Sir, your father paid me to bury an empty coffin.”

My mother stood near the black funeral car with one hand over her mouth.

My wife, Celeste, kept our two children close.

And I stood there trying to be the son everyone expected me to be.

Strong.

Helpful.

Still standing.

My father, Raymond Mercer, was sixty-six. They said he had suffered a heart attack in his study and was gone before the ambulance arrived.

For three days, I had chosen flowers, signed documents, comforted my mother, and convinced myself grief was the only thing happening.