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

The last word stuck in my mind like a stone in a shoe. Forgotten.

Back at home, the quiet roared. His recliner sat untouched. His slippers waited side by side. The TV remote rested where he had last left it. I stared at it for a long time, then walked to the kitchen, opened a good bottle of wine from the cabinet I always saved for guests, and poured myself a glass.

I took out my phone and opened Instagram. I don’t often scroll, but something told me to look.

Celia’s profile, of course, was public. She had posted two hours earlier: a picture of her and three girlfriends, drinks in hand, mid-laugh.

Caption: “Girls brunch. Bottomless mimosas. Living our best lives.”

Peter had posted, too. A snapshot from the ninth hole, his new driver glinting in the sun.

“Killer swing. Perfect weather. Deals made.”