Funerals have a certain kind of silence.
Not peaceful.
Pressurized.
The chapel smelled like lilies and cold air conditioning.
People spoke in whispers that sounded rehearsed, like they were afraid a normal voice would shatter something.
My daughter Jessica was thirty-five.
Healthy. Active. Young enough that the words “heart failure” still didn’t feel real in my mouth.
I was trying to do the only thing I could do: stay upright for my grandson.
Ethan was seven, small in a black suit that swallowed his arms.
He held my hand like he was gripping a rope over deep water.
Halfway through the service, he leaned close and whispered something that made my skin go cold.
“Grandma… Mommy says you need to look at her stomach.”
I started to shake my head.
I wanted to dismiss it.
I wanted to be normal for one minute.
But Ethan wasn’t playing.
His eyes were wide, terrified, and focused on something I couldn’t see.
“She keeps saying it,” he whispered. “She’s scared.”
I stood up.
And I walked out of the chapel in the middle of my daughter’s funeral.
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