“It hardly matters.” Amanda’s smile sharpened. “There’s clearly nothing else of value. Please—everyone—stay and celebrate Richard’s life.”

The party resumed. Clinks. Business cards. A laugh from the kitchen that didn’t know its place. I rode the elevator down inside a soundproof box of grief. At my Upper West Side apartment—where Richard’s height was still penciled on the kitchen doorjamb and the curtains held the smell of old paper—I set the ticket on the table and watched the afternoon step down the brick of the building across the way.

I could have called a lawyer. Could have contested the insult delivered with witnesses. But under the humiliation there was a stubborn frequency only one voice in the world carried. Trust me, Mom. One last time. Against reason, I tuned to it.

By dawn I had packed a single suitcase, watered the philodendron, and ordered a car to JFK. Airports are designed for people pretending not to think. Grief knows every gate.