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

Three words.

No period.

No “honey.”

No explanation.

My mother never texted like that. She wrote long messages full of commas and called me sweetheart even when she only needed me to pick up milk.

But she was standing thirty yards away at her husband’s funeral, supposedly texting me like a stranger.

The gravedigger saw the screen.

His face lost color.

“Don’t,” he said. “Whatever you do, don’t go home yet.”

I looked at the grave.