The service felt as though it was never going to end, but Monica eventually realized, as if slipping out of a trance, that people had lined up to greet her. She was Lily’s only surviving immediate family; all of Lily’s four siblings had passed on, and the children of those brothers and sisters were scattered to the wind. Lily had formed her closest bonds with the church, and Monica and her family.

Monica tried to get to her feet to meet the crush of people, but when her knees wobbled, the well-wishers insisted that she remain sitting. She greeted them all and accepted their embraces, kisses, and supportive words. A few of them even pressed envelopes into her hands that she dimly understood contained money, and she made a mental note to donate the funds to Lily’s favored charities.

Troy remained at her side throughout the greetings, but he kept fidgeting and glancing over his shoulder to the back of the church. As the line finally dispersed, he helped her to stand.

“I want you to meet someone, sweetheart,” he said.

“I’m exhausted, Troy. Who is it?”

“It’s a surprise.” His brown eyes glimmered.

“I need a few minutes.” A spell of vertigo had hit her. She gripped the edge of the pew for balance. Looking around, she saw a stream of people filtering out of the sanctuary, but didn’t see her children. “Wait, where are the kids?”

“Mom took them outside. They were restless.”

She hadn’t realized they had already left. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’ve got to visit the ladies room,” she said.

“Sure, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

In the restroom, Monica examined herself in the mirror. Predictably, her makeup was ruined from the tears she had shed, her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair looked as if it had been used as a crow’s nest.

She switched on the faucet, allowed cold water to fill her cupped palms, and splashed them against her face.

Although Lily had raised her since her birth and treated her like a blood grandchild, she had sensed at an early age that she and Lily didn’t share a genetic bond. They looked so different. Lily was short and heavy-boned, with an oak complexion and copper-brown eyes; Monica was slim, had always been taller than most of her female classmates, had a complexion the color of fresh honey, and striking hazel eyes. When Monica was nine, Lily had told her the hard facts of their relationship: she had adopted her at Monica’s birth, loved her like her own biological grandchild, and was going to be there for her no matter what.