The casket is small. Too small. That’s my first coherent thought as they lower Caleb into the ground, my nine-year-old son’s final resting place. My hands won’t stop trembling. I’ve tried pressing them against my black dress, gripping them together until my knuckles turn white, even shoving them into my pockets.
Nothing works. The tears flow endlessly, silent rivers down my cheeks that I no longer bother wiping away. My stomach knots with each mechanical whir of the pulley system lowering his casket, and my knees threaten to buckle beneath me.
The cemetery worker nods at me, waiting for some signal that I’m ready for this moment. I’ll never be ready. Eight months ago, the doctors finally named the monster stealing my son’s strength.
«Rare blood disorder,» they said, as if labeling it might make it less terrifying. Caleb took the news better than I did, his small face serious but determined as the doctor explained the treatments. «Will it hurt?» he asked, his voice steady.
«Sometimes,» the doctor answered honestly, «but we’ll do everything we can to help.» He never complained through eight months of needles, transfusions, and medications with names I could barely pronounce. Even when his small body was ravaged by fevers that left him shaking beneath hospital blankets, he’d look up at me with those eyes so much like his father’s and say, «I’m okay, Mom. Don’t worry.»
Now I stand alone beside his grave, the ache of their absence a physical pain as sharp as the loss itself. My parents, who should be standing beside me. My sister, Victoria, who promised she’d always be there for us. Melissa, my best friend since third grade, who held my hand through my divorce but couldn’t be bothered to show up today.
I pull out my phone, a reflexive gesture I immediately regret. Victoria’s Instagram feed loads automatically. Photos of her engagement party at the Grand Horizon Hotel flood my screen, happening right now, at this exact moment. There she is, champagne glass raised, diamond glittering, our parents beaming beside her. The timestamp shows it was posted twenty minutes ago, while I was listening to the minister speak words that couldn’t possibly capture who Caleb was.
«Are you doing all right, dear?» I look up to see Angela, my elderly neighbor, the only person who came today. Her weathered hand rests lightly on my arm, her eyes full of genuine concern. For eighteen months, she brought homemade meals to our house when I was too exhausted from hospital visits to cook.
She sat with Caleb when I needed to shower or sleep. She never once treated his illness as an inconvenience. «They didn’t come,» I whisper, the words barely audible. «Not one of them.»
I can’t stop remembering Caleb’s laugh, the real one, before the illness, when it would bubble up from somewhere deep and uncontrolled. How he’d declare at seven years old that he was going to become a doctor «to fix kids like me someday.» The way he’d insist on wearing his superhero pajamas to chemo treatments because «superheroes are brave, even when they’re scared.»
«That boy loved you more than anything in this world,» Angela says quietly. I nod, remembering how Ethan, my ex-husband, had set up an $850,000 college trust fund for Caleb before his company transferred him overseas. «If anything ever happens,» he’d said, «you’re the residual beneficiary. I know you’ll honor his memory.» He couldn’t have known how soon those words would matter.
Part of me wants to call my parents, to scream until my voice gives out. How could they choose Victoria’s engagement party over their grandson’s funeral? Another part feels too numb to feel anything at all. I’ve spent eighteen months fighting for my son’s life, sleeping in hospital chairs, memorizing medical terminology, and advocating when doctors dismissed symptoms. Now there’s nothing left to fight for.
My phone buzzes with a text message. My mother’s name appears on the screen. «We need to talk. Bring the trust documents tomorrow.» I stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure I understand. They didn’t come to Caleb’s funeral, but they’re interested in his trust fund?
Something cold and analytical cuts through my grief for the first time today. Something doesn’t add up. I type back, «I’m burying my son today. I can’t talk about paperwork right now.»
Her response comes immediately. «Don’t be dramatic, Destiny. This is important for the whole family.» The whole family. The same family that couldn’t spare two hours to say goodbye to Caleb.
The reality of what’s happening begins to crystallize. This isn’t just about money; it’s about the last thing I have from my son. His legacy. The future he’ll never have. I realize with sudden clarity that I’m alone in this fight. My parents, Victoria, even Melissa—they’re united, coordinating, while I’m vulnerable and isolated in my grief.
What have they been planning? For how long? Angela notices my distress. «What is it?» I show her my mother’s message, watching her face harden as she reads it. «Oh dear,» she says softly. «They can’t possibly think…»
I turn off my phone completely. Whatever they want, it can wait. This moment belongs to Caleb. I won’t let them take that from me too. Angela places a gentle hand on my shoulder. «You’re not alone, dear. I’m here.»
The cemetery worker approaches hesitantly. «I’m sorry, but we need to finish the service.» I look at Caleb’s casket, suspended above the open earth. Am I supposed to walk away now? Leave him here alone? My body feels frozen, unable to take that first step away.
Angela steps forward. «Give her a moment, please. She’s saying goodbye to her boy.» The worker nods and steps back, respecting the boundary Angela has created. I reach into my pocket and pull out Caleb’s favorite action figure, the one he insisted on keeping with him through every hospital stay.
I kneel beside the grave and place it gently on top of his casket. «I’ll protect what’s yours, I promise,» I whisper. As I stand, something shifts inside me. Through the fog of grief, a small spark ignites. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I know one thing with absolute certainty. They will not take my son’s legacy without a fight.
The morning after the funeral dawns gray and drizzly, matching my mood as I drive to my parents’ colonial-style home in Oakwood Heights. I grip the steering wheel too tightly, my knuckles whitening with each mile closer to their house. My throat constricts at the thought of seeing them after yesterday, after they chose Victoria’s engagement party over their own grandson’s funeral.
I park behind a familiar silver BMW. Melissa’s car. Of course, she’s here too. The front door opens before I reach it. My father stands in the entryway, his face a practiced mask of paternal concern that doesn’t reach his eyes. «Destiny, come in. We’ve been waiting.»
