At my husband’s funeral, no one came except me. Our children chose parties over their father’s final goodbye.

He had been punctual even in his last days, taking his pills by the clock, watching the evening news at six sharp, folding his slippers side by side before bed. A man of habit. A man of dignity. And now, a man laid to rest alone.

I sat in the front row, all five chairs around me empty. The pastor recited scripture without conviction. The flowers were too bright, the casket too polished. I couldn’t stop thinking how George would have laughed at the fuss, then glanced around, frowning, asking where the hell the kids were.

Where were they?

A message had come that morning. Our son Peter had sent a one-liner: “Sorry, Mom. Something came up. Can’t make it.” No explanation. No call.

I imagined him at his office—or more likely on a golf course with clients—pretending not to feel the weight of the day, pretending his father’s death was just a small event on a busy calendar.

Our daughter, Celia, hadn’t messaged at all. She’d left a voicemail two days earlier, breezy as a spring wind.

“Mom, I really can’t cancel my nail appointment, and you know how anxious I get with reschedules. Tell Dad I’ll visit him next week.”