“Where’s the funeral home director?” I demanded, my voice louder and more commanding than I intended. The director, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a nervous disposition, stepped forward, wringing his hands anxiously.
“There… there must have been a mix-up,” he stuttered, clearly flustered. “I… I’m so sorry. This has never happened before. I’ll… I’ll make some calls.”
His words barely registered as I knelt beside my mother, who was beginning to stir. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding her gaze before the reality of the situation hit her once more. “Where’s your father?” she whispered, her voice cracking.
