I never imagined burying my own child. Nothing felt more wrong than standing above the earth as it took my son, Richard, who was only thirty-eight, while I was sixty-two. Rain streaked through the oaks at Green-Wood Cemetery, making marble angels appear to cry with us. The world felt distant—the sound of shovels in wet soil, distant thunder, and the murmurs of uncertain mourners blurred around me.

Grief narrowed my vision to the coffin, the open ground, and the whispers of my name from people afraid to break me. Across from me stood Amanda, my daughter-in-law. Her sharp hair, perfect eyeliner, and rigid posture made her seem armored. Her black Chanel dress felt more suited to a gala than a graveside. She accepted condolences like a practiced hostess, her smile never reaching warmth, only polite sympathy.

After the soil settled, a man in a gray suit approached. Richard’s attorney, Jeffrey Palmer, asked me to attend the will reading at the penthouse in an hour. “That’s… soon,” I managed to say, my voice nearly swallowed by the rain. Amanda had insisted, drawn to the theatrical—Richard had mistaken that glow for love. I couldn’t hold it against him; after losing my husband, I understood the desire to cling to happiness wherever it appeared, even when motives were opaque.

The Fifth Avenue penthouse hovered above Central Park like a glass vessel. Richard had bought it, but Amanda transformed it—books gone, angles sharp, chairs daring you to relax. Guests drifted in as if attending a launch party rather than a wake.

When I arrived, Amanda greeted me with an air-kiss and polished brightness. “So glad you could make it,” she said, and I declined wine, watching her seamlessly shift toward another guest.

Even in my grief, I noticed how she moved through the room like a performance, every gesture precise, every word calculated. In contrast, my sorrow remained raw, unpolished, and uncontainable, making her composure all the more striking.