Standing beside them was David and Sarah’s eight-year-old son, Leo—a quiet, serious child with his father’s dark eyes and his mother’s delicate features. He stood clutching at his mother’s black dress, staring up at Mark with an expression I couldn’t quite read at the time. Looking back now, I think it might have been wariness.
Mark reached down and placed his hand on Leo’s small shoulder, squeezing gently. For just a second, I saw something intense flash across my husband’s face—something that looked almost like possessiveness, though that didn’t make sense to me then.
After most people had left, Mark walked up to David’s open casket and just stood there in silence. I waited respectfully at the back of the church, giving him space to grieve privately.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Mark remained rooted to that spot, completely still except for his lips, which I could see moving slightly. He was whispering something to his dead friend—words I couldn’t hear from where I stood.
Leo had wandered up and was standing a few feet behind Mark, watching him with that same unreadable expression.
Finally, I walked over and gently touched Mark’s arm. “Mark? Honey, we should probably go. They need to close up soon.”
He startled slightly, like he’d forgotten where he was. “I was just saying goodbye,” he said, his voice rough. “Just needed a minute.”
We turned to leave and nearly collided with Leo, who was still hovering nearby.
Mark crouched down so he was at eye level with the boy. He didn’t say anything—just looked into Leo’s eyes for a long moment and gave his shoulder another squeeze before standing back up.
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