A message had come that morning. Our son Peter had sent a one-liner: “Sorry, Mom. Something came up. Can’t make it.” No explanation. No call.

I imagined him at his office—or more likely on a golf course with clients—pretending not to feel the weight of the day, pretending his father’s death was just a small event on a busy calendar.

Our daughter, Celia, hadn’t messaged at all. She’d left a voicemail two days earlier, breezy as a spring wind.

“Mom, I really can’t cancel my nail appointment, and you know how anxious I get with reschedules. Tell Dad I’ll visit him next week.”

Next week. As if dead men wait.