I told my son his father just died. He said, «It’s my wife’s birthday». Weeks later! He got a letter from my lawyer . He read it and froze…

Can I call you later? I didn’t even understand the words at first. I thought I’d hallucinated them. But then he added, she’s got this whole brunch planned and we’ve got people over.

I said nothing, not a scream, not a sob, just silence. My hand lowered the phone on instinct. I hung up on my own son before I could hear anything else.

That would break me even further. The room around me started to hum, like my ears were filling with pressure. I looked over at Gerald’s chair, the one he always sat in for breakfast, for late night crossword puzzles, the one he was still slumped in.

And I just sat beside him for what felt like an hour, holding his hand like it would bring him back. At some point, the coroner came. They asked if I wanted a moment.

I didn’t. What was the point? The moment I needed was gone. I went upstairs, locked the door, and lay down on our bed without changing the sheets.

Gerald’s phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up, hoping, God, hoping there’d be something. And there was.

A missed call log from last night, 10.42 PM. One missed call to Nathan, no voicemail, no answer. He tried.

Gerald tried to talk to him last night. Maybe he knew something was wrong. Maybe he felt it.

And our son ignored it. I held the phone to my chest and felt the weight of everything we’d built. Forty-two years of marriage, a house full of memories, a man who worked every damn day to make sure his family never went without.

And the silence from Nathan rang louder than any eulogy ever could. The day of Gerald’s funeral felt like stepping into a parallel universe where I could see everyone’s lips moving, but hear nothing except the screaming silence of Nathan’s absence. I stood by the casket, gripping the edges of the podium.

Trying to keep my balance, while people I hadn’t seen in years came up and whispered things like, he was such a good man, and we’re so sorry. And all I could think about was how my son, my only child, was not there, not in the pews, not standing beside me, not even in the damn parking lot. When I called the night before to confirm the funeral time, Megan answered and told me Nathan was still thinking about it, because they had already booked a weekend getaway, and cancellation fees are steep this close to the date.

I remember staring at the phone, blinking, as she rambled about how Megan’s birthday was important too, and that she was trying to keep things light for the sake of her own mental health. I didn’t even respond. I just hung up…