But now, sitting in that church, I watched Bill escort that same woman down the aisle.
His hand rested on the small of her back as if she belonged there.
He led her directly to the front row—the seat reserved for the grieving husband.
Sharon leaned her head against his shoulder like she was the widow.
Someone behind me whispered in disbelief, “Did he really bring his girlfriend to his wife’s funeral?”
I gripped the pew and started to stand.
There was no way I was going to sit quietly while those two disrespected my daughter’s memory.
If necessary, I would drag that woman out myself.
Frank grabbed my arm.
“Not here,” he whispered urgently. “Not during the service.”
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