Frank Carter handled the paperwork.
Judith Carter handled the funeral.
Their daughter, Vanessa, handled nothing at all—or at least that was what I told myself.
She appeared in tailored black dresses, sat with her sunglasses on during the graveside service, and left before anyone else did. She barely looked at me. She barely looked at Rosie. And when people told me how lucky I was to have Daniel’s family supporting me, I was too broken to laugh.
Support, I learned, can look a lot like control when you’re desperate enough.
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