Evan was waiting for it.

He expected the tears. He craved the chaotic scene.

He wanted the shattered, hysterical old woman collapsing in a heap of unintelligible grief, so he could play the tragic, long-suffering widower for the inevitable swarm of cameras waiting on the church steps.

Throughout their marriage, Evan had always believed I was insignificant simply because I spoke softly.

He thought my graying hair equaled weakness.

He thought my maternal grief would render me blind, deaf, and foolish.

He was spectacularly wrong on all three counts.