When I asked for help with Ethan’s funeral, my mom sighed.
“Sweetheart, we already promised Vanessa we’d help her and Kyle get settled in the apartment this week.”
“Mom,” I said slowly, “Ethan just died.”
“I know. But you’re strong. You’ll manage.”
So I buried my husband almost alone.
My best friend Samantha stood beside me. Ethan’s coworkers cried more than my own family did.
My parents and sister showed up late, sat in the back, and left early.
Lucas stayed in a coma for six months.
I read to him. Talked about baseball. Told him his dad would be proud.
My family visited three times.
Always in a hurry.
Then one morning in July, the doctor called.
“Mrs. Carter, you need to come in immediately.”
I saw her face in the hallway and knew.
Lucas was gone.
That afternoon, I called my mother.
My hands were shaking.
“I need help,” I said. “I have to bury my son.”
Silence.
Then—
“We can’t, Angela. We’re flying to Cancún tomorrow with Vanessa and Kyle. The trip’s already paid for.”
I gripped the phone.
“Mom… Lucas was your grandson.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said flatly. “But we spent eight thousand dollars on this trip. We can’t lose that money.”
“You’re choosing a vacation over your grandson’s funeral?”
“You’re being dramatic. You can handle this. You always do.”
She hung up.
Minutes later, Vanessa called.
“I heard you’re making a scene,” she said.
“My son just died.”
“I said I’m sorry, but we’re not canceling our trip.”
“He was your nephew.”
“And his death is your problem, not mine. I’m pregnant, Angela. This might be my last chance to relax before the baby.”
Something inside me went quiet.
“Don’t say his name again,” I said.
“Oh please,” she snapped. “If you want to drown in your grief, do it alone. I’m not ruining my happiness because your kid died.”
I hung up.
That night, I sat in Lucas’s room.
Surrounded by his trophies, his glove, his notebooks.
And I realized something terrible:
