The morning we buried my wife, my daughter laughed and said, “Dad, it’s my friend’s birthday. Don’t guilt me.” I stood by her coffin in the rain. Weeks later, she read my lawyer’s letter and cried, “You can’t take everything!”—not knowing which wish she had betrayed…

I stood frozen beside my wife’s grave, unable to understand how the woman who had laughed in our kitchen only two weeks ago was now beneath polished oak and six feet of mud.

People whispered condolences as they passed.

“She was wonderful, Daniel.”

“So sorry for your loss.”

“Call if you need anything.”

I nodded without hearing them. My eyes searched for only one person.

My daughter.

Emma stood several feet away under the cemetery awning, scrolling through her phone with irritation tightening her face. She wore black because someone had told her she had to, but nothing about her expression carried grief.

Then she walked toward me.