He didn’t put an arm around my shoulder.

He stood three feet away, adjusted the cuffs of his expensive black suit, checked his Rolex, and sighed.

“Mom,” he said, his voice without warmth, “have you decided what you’re doing with the house yet?

The market’s peaking. It’s a lot of square footage for one person to maintain.”

I stared at him, the wind whipping my black veil against my cheek, cemetery mud on my black pumps.

I didn’t answer. That was the first crack in the foundation of my maternal martyrdom.

Nine days later, the crack shattered.