The gravel in the lot behind Lakeview Cemetery crunched like broken glass beneath our dress shoes.

My son Brandon caught hold of my right arm just as the driver swung open the door of the black sedan.

His thumb pressed hard into the wool of my overcoat.

A few yards off, his wife Melissa stood by the rear bumper, straightening her heavy gold bracelets over the cuff of her coat.

She glanced at her gold watch twice in ten seconds.

“We have to talk about the family ledger, Dad,” Brandon said.

He kept his voice low and quick, bent close to my ear so the relatives climbing into the cars behind us wouldn’t overhear.

“The driver’s waiting, Brandon,” I said.

My voice came out thin in the cold air.

“The driver can wait three minutes,” Brandon said.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, tugging his tie knot off center.

“Now that Mom’s buried, we have to look at the bottom line.

You can’t go on pulling money out of Mitchell Family Holdings every month.”

“The monthly draw hasn’t changed in nine years,” I said.

“That was while Mom was in home hospice,” Brandon said.

“The nursing care was a special case.

Going forward, you need to cut back your personal spending and stand on your own financially.”

Melissa stepped twice toward us across the wet grass, her heels sinking into the soft ground.