The first thing I heard at my children’s funeral was my husband laughing.
It wasn’t loud, but inside the heavy silence of the stone chapel, it cut through the air like a gunshot. A low, careless chuckle came from the back pew. I turned slowly, feeling as if my body no longer belonged to me. There stood Ryan, half-hidden behind the white flowers, shoulder-to-shoulder with his mistress, Brooke, while my entire world—my four-year-old twins, Ava and Jack—lay in two small white coffins.
The smell of lilies and polished wood made my empty stomach twist. Every mourner turned toward him. But Ryan did not look ashamed. He simply adjusted his black silk tie and walked down the aisle toward me.
He leaned close enough for me to smell bourbon beneath his cologne.
“God took them,” Ryan whispered. “Because He knew what kind of mother you were. You never deserved them, Emma.”
My knees almost gave out. I gripped the cold brass handle of Ava’s coffin just to stay standing.
“Please,” I begged. “Ryan, please. Be quiet today. Not here. Not in front of them.”
His hand struck my face.
