The funeral was a blur of black clothing and whispered condolences. Margaret sat in the front row, opposite me and the children. She didn’t cry. When people approached her, she accepted their embraces with rigid dignity.
Emma clung to my hand, her little fingers squeezing mine whenever a new person approached us. Liam stood straight beside me, trying his best to already be the man of the house.
After the service, Margaret approached us. Her eyes were red but dry, her posture rigid.
“It’s your fault,” she said without preamble, her voice low but sharp enough to cut.
I stared at her, uncomprehending. “Excuse me?”
