Thirty-two years together—thirty-two years building a life, a house, a future. He was sixty-five; I had just turned sixty. I never imagined I would be there, sitting in front of his casket, feeling life slip away with every second I looked at his photograph next to the white flowers. I expected him to open his eyes and tell me, “Andrea, that’s enough. Let’s go home.” But Robert wasn’t going to wake up. And my son, Steven, knew it. Worse, he was silently celebrating it.