Her name was Celeste.
Her heels clicked against the church floor, sharp and merciless, like applause after a crime.
I stood beside my daughter’s coffin with both hands clasped before me. The elderly women from the neighborhood murmured prayers behind gloved hands. My sister gripped my elbow, but I did not move.
Inside the coffin, my daughter Emma looked like porcelain. Too pale. Too still. One hand rested over the curve of her belly, where my unborn grandson had stopped moving with her.
Evan’s eyes met mine.
“Margaret,” he said warmly, as though we were meeting at a holiday gathering. “Terrible day.”
Celeste tilted her head, her red lips gleaming. She leaned close enough for me to catch her perfume.
“Looks like I win,” she murmured.
My throat burned.
For a single second, I was not a mother. I was a storm. I wanted to rip the veil from her hair, drag Evan by his perfect collar, scream until the stained glass shattered.
