I still remember Mark’s face when he got the phone call with the news. He looked like someone had reached inside his chest and torn something vital out. His skin went gray, his hands started shaking, and when I rushed over to embrace him, his arms just hung limply at his sides like he’d forgotten how they worked.
I thought he was simply in shock, overwhelmed by grief at losing someone he’d known since college. It never crossed my mind that he might also be drowning in guilt—the kind of guilt that comes from harboring feelings you know you shouldn’t have.
The funeral was held at St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church on a gray Thursday afternoon. The sanctuary was packed with people—David had been one of those naturally charismatic men who collected friends wherever he went. His widow, Sarah, sat in the front pew looking so fragile and diminished that I worried she might literally shatter if someone spoke too loudly or touched her too suddenly.
After the service, there was a receiving line where people offered their condolences. Sarah hugged many people, but when she reached Mark, she held onto him longer than anyone else. Much longer. Mark’s arms wrapped around her carefully, protectively, like she was made of spun glass that might break under too much pressure.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” I heard her whisper against Mark’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Mark murmured back. “I promise you’re not alone.”
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