But that night it pressed harder, louder, crueler.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the empty chairs, about Celia’s missing message—about the fact that I had raised a daughter who could let her father be lowered into the ground while she clinked glasses over brunch. Had I failed her, or had she failed something inside herself that could no longer be recovered?

Peter’s text sat there in my mind as clearly as if it were glowing on the screen. No punctuation. No warmth. Just a flat rejection in black and white.

“Something came up.”

Was it shame? Indifference? Or the kind of casual cruelty you don’t even recognize until it’s too late?