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

Mr. Halloway, the funeral director, stepped between me and the grave. He was a tall man, accustomed to managing sorrow, but he was not accustomed to rebellion. He shook his head, a practiced look of sympathetic firmness on his face. “Sir, I understand your pain, but we cannot just… open the casket. It’s sealed. It’s against protocol. The service is concluded.”

“My child is begging me,” I said, my voice shaking now, vibrating with an adrenaline I couldn’t control. “And I need to know.”

“Know what?” Mark snapped, grabbing my arm. “She’s dead, Tom! We were at the hospital! We saw the flatline. We signed the papers. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to Noah.”

“I’m doing this for Noah!” I ripped my arm away from him.