Because my wife, Lena, was lying in that coffin, and our child—our son, who had been kicking just days before—was supposed to be gone with her.
Seven months pregnant.
Gone.
I leaned forward slightly, my throat tight, my voice barely more than air. “Please… just let me see her one last time.”
The funeral director hesitated, the way people do when they know they’re about to step into something irreversible. He glanced at Lena’s parents, who stood a few feet away, their grief quieter but somehow heavier, like it had settled into their bones.
Her mother shook her head faintly, whispering, “I can’t… I can’t see her like that.”
But I needed to.
Not because I thought it would help—somewhere deep down I knew it wouldn’t—but because I couldn’t accept that the last version of Lena I would ever carry was the one from that hospital room, surrounded by machines that had slowly, methodically given up on her.
“I’m her husband,” I said, softer this time. “Please.”
After a moment that stretched too long, the director nodded.
