The morning of the funeral was gray and damp, the sky weeping the tears I couldn’t. At the cemetery, a cold wind cut across the headstones. Friends and neighbors offered condolences, their eyes soft with pity. I searched the crowd instinctively, a foolish part of me hoping to see Rachel’s blue SUV pull into the lot. It never came.

Patricia, Linda’s sister, approached me, her expression a mixture of grief and expectation. “Where is she?” she whispered.

“She had important commitments,” I said, the lie tasting like ash.

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “What on earth could be more important than this?”

I couldn’t answer. I turned toward the gleaming mahogany casket as the service began. The pastor spoke of eternal bonds, but all I could feel was the canyon-like absence to my left, where my daughter should have stood. I thought of how Linda had defended her, even when Rachel missed chemo appointments because “things came up.” Linda’s loyalty had been absolute, a shield her daughter now hid behind.