Laura
By ten in the morning, Evelyn had changed the flower arrangements three times, rejected two photographs of her own husband, and informed the funeral director that the shade of navy on the memorial cards was “too cheerful.”
I had no idea navy could be cheerful.
I also had not slept more than three consecutive hours in almost a week, Austin had discovered teething and apparently considered it a personal betrayal, and somewhere between choosing hymns and answering questions about Samuel’s favorite whiskey, I had started seriously considering locking myself in the funeral home bathroom until everyone went away.
Instead, I sat beside Evelyn at a long polished table while the funeral director carefully slid another sample booklet toward us.
“This is the more traditional option,” he sa
