As we left the grave, my son screamed, “Mom is cold! I felt her hand!” My sister hissed, “Stop this embarrassment, she’s gone,” trying to drag him away. I ignored her and grabbed a shovel. I dug until my hands bled. When the lid finally popped open, the crowd froze in horror. My wife’s eyes were wide open, and the desperate scratches on the inside of the lid revealed a truth that made the police arrest my sister instantly

“Stop,” I said.

My voice was quiet, but in the sudden silence following Noah’s scream, it carried.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Halloway paused, his hand hovering in the air.

“I said stop.” I stepped forward, pulling Noah with me. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. “I want the coffin opened.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped plate, shattering the solemnity of the ritual.

“What?” My brother, Mark, stepped forward, his face flushing with a mixture of confusion and anger. “Thomas, are you out of your mind? You can’t do that.”

“This is grief, Thomas,” my Aunt Martha added, clutching her pearls as if they were rosary beads. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re traumatized. Let us take you home.”