“Oh, those pies! She’d send you over with slices for us, proud as could be. ‘Emerald helped with this one,’ she’d always say. ‘She has the perfect touch with the cinnamon.’”

“I tried making one last week,” I admitted, my voice catching. “It wasn’t the same. I picked up the phone to ask her what I’d done wrong, and then… the heart attack… the ambulance arrived and—”

“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Anderson pulled me into a tight hug. “She knew how much you loved her. That’s what matters. And look at all these people here… she touched so many lives.”

The funeral home was indeed crowded, filled with friends and neighbors sharing stories in hushed voices. I spotted my mother, Victoria, standing off to the side, checking her phone. She hadn’t shed a tear all day.

As Mrs. Anderson and I were talking, I saw my mother approach the casket. She glanced around furtively before leaning over it, her manicured hand slipping something inside. It looked like a small package.

When she straightened, her eyes darted around the room before she walked away, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor.

“Did you see that?” I whispered, my heart suddenly racing.