After his best friend died, my husband decided to take care of the man's eight-year-old son. Every Saturday, they played baseball together, went out for hamburgers, and did "boy stuff" together. I believed every word—until the boy slipped me a crumpled note and said, "Mark's lying. You should read this."
Six months ago, my husband's best friend died of a heart attack.
I still remember Mark's face when he told me the news. He looked like he'd lost all reason to live. I hugged him tightly, but his arms remained limp and suspended at his sides.
I thought he was simply in shock, grieving... I hadn't imagined he could also feel guilty.
At the funeral, the church was packed. Sarah, David's widow, looked so fragile that she might have broken if the organist had played too loudly.
I never thought he felt guilty.
Sarah held Mark in her arms longer than anyone else. Mark held her gently. It was a soft, protective embrace.
"I don't know what I would do without you," I heard her whisper to him.
Leo, the eight-year-old son of David and Sarah, stared at Mark, who was clinging to his mother's black dress.
Mark reached out and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. For a second, I saw a glimmer of intensity in his eyes.
Sarah held Mark in her arms longer than anyone else.
After the ceremony, Mark approached the coffin and stayed there.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Mark remained rooted to the spot. Leo finally approached and stood behind Mark.
When I finally approached, I saw Mark's hand resting on the edge of the coffin. His lips were moving. He was whispering to a dead man.
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