That’s the detail that stuck with me more than anything else—not the polished wood of the coffin, not the quiet sobs, not even the way people avoided my eyes like grief might be contagious—but the overwhelming sweetness of those flowers, thick and artificial, trying too hard to make death feel gentle.
I stood beside the coffin with my hands trembling so badly I had to press them together just to keep them still. Someone had told me, earlier that morning, to be strong. Not directly, not in those exact words, but it was implied in every look, every soft pat on the shoulder, every carefully measured sentence people used when they didn’t know what else to say.
Be strong.
For her.
For the baby.
Except there was no baby anymore.
At least, that’s what they had told me.
“My name is Ethan Cole,” I remember thinking, as if saying it silently might anchor me to something real. “I’m thirty-two years old. I am a husband.”
The word husband felt strange in that moment. Not wrong. Just… incomplete.
