I Asked to See My Daughter. They Told Me “The Service Is Underway.”
The funeral director tried to block me with politeness.
Soft voice. Gentle hands. “Ma’am, we can’t—”
I didn’t negotiate.
I used the same tone I used in the ER when someone was about to make a fatal mistake.
“I need to see my daughter now,” I said. “If you refuse, I will call the police and report that I suspect something was missed.”
He went pale.
And then he moved.
The preparation room was cold and bright in a way that felt cruel.
Jessica lay there peaceful, dressed for burial, her face calm like she’d never suffered a day in her life.
But I didn’t focus on her face.
I looked where Ethan told me to look.
I lifted the fabric carefully.
And I froze.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t obvious to strangers.
But to someone who had spent decades looking at bodies and recognizing patterns… it was enough.
A subtle, unnatural fullness.
Not bloating. Not posture.
Something else.
My throat tightened.
“Call a doctor,” I told the director. “Now.”
They brought in a physician with a portable ultrasound.
He didn’t ask why I was demanding it.
He took one look at my face and understood this wasn’t about curiosity.
He applied gel.
He moved the probe.
And then the room changed.
The doctor stared at the screen for a long moment, then lowered his hand slowly.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he said quietly, “your daughter was pregnant.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Pregnant.
Far enough along that it should have been known. Documented. Treated carefully.
And suddenly, “heart failure” didn’t sound like a cause.
It sounded like a label slapped on a situation no one wanted to examine too closely.
I walked out of that room like my legs belonged to someone else.
And I made one phone call.
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