So when he whispered about Jessica at the funeral, I didn’t debate it.
I moved.
I took him into the hallway and knelt in front of him.
“What exactly is she saying?” I asked, keeping my voice low, controlled.
Ethan’s lip trembled.
“She says… ‘Look at my stomach.’”
I swallowed.
“Anything else?”
His voice cracked.
“She says… ‘Baby.’”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Jessica would have told me if she was pregnant.
We told each other everything.
Unless she didn’t feel safe.
I looked back toward the chapel doors.
To the front row where my son-in-law, Derek, sat like a statue—perfect posture, dry eyes, grief performed with too much control.
My nursing instincts, the ones I’d tried to silence with grief, woke up angry.
Something was wrong.
I stood.
“Ethan, sit right here,” I told him. “Do not move. I’m coming back.”
Then I went to find the funeral director.
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