I never imagined burying my own child. Nothing feels more wrong than standing above the earth while it takes your son. Richard was only thirty-eight; I was sixty-two. Rain streaked through the oaks at Green-Wood Cemetery, slicking marble angels so they seemed to cry with us. The world sounded distant—shovels in wet soil, thunder far away, the unsure murmurs of mourners.

Grief narrowed my vision to the coffin, the open ground, and my name spoken softly by people afraid to break me. Across from me stood Amanda, my daughter-in-law—sharp hair, perfect eyeliner, posture like armor. Her black Chanel dress looked meant for a gala, not a graveside. She accepted condolences like a practiced hostess, her smile never warming past professional sympathy.

A man in a gray suit approached once the last soil fell. Richard’s attorney—Jeffrey Palmer—asked me to attend the will reading at the penthouse in an hour. “That’s… soon,” I said, though the rain nearly swallowed my voice. Of course Amanda had insisted. She adored theater—the stage, the audience—and Richard mistook that glow for love. I never held it against him; after losing my husband, I understood clinging to happiness wherever it appeared, even when numbers flickered behind her eyes.

The Fifth Avenue penthouse floated above Central Park like a glass vessel. Richard bought it; she transformed it—books gone, angles sharp, chairs daring you to relax. Guests drifted through like it was a launch party, not a wake. When I arrived, Amanda greeted me with an air-kiss and polished brightness. “So glad you could make it.” I declined wine and watched her turn smoothly toward another guest, already back in performance mode.