We climb into our limousine in our suitable new clothes—Adele in Lord & Taylor widow’s weeds, me in Kohl’s basic black pantsuit, also useful for job interviews and visiting New York—and drive in luxury to the church.

I hadn’t counted on Paul’s clients and Melanie’s circle of friends. It’s not a bad crowd, for a perfect September Saturday morning, more suitable for a round of golf than a funeral. The four of us emerge from our limo, are met by Ryan and Peter, the younger boy, who have come in the family Lexus. Hugs shared all around. Paul supports Adele, but the sight of his bulk and her bent-over figure make me think irreverently of Shrek and a Hobbit. Then my nephew, my stepnephew, young Ryan, offers his arm to me, and I am touched to tears.

I have spent the previous evening looking at the face of my dead father. In death, in this waxy repose, he was diminished, as I guess death diminishes us all. Strangers filed in, in twos and threes; some people I sort of recognized, old friends, most of them tottering about, pushing walkers, aged way past how I remember them; old customers coming in to pay their respects. They all offered such lovely platitudes: “… a better place.” “He will be missed.” “… hell of a guy.” Some even cried. Who were these people to weep over my father’s death? Adele greeted each and every one of them with what I can only describe as queenly calm. Paul knew them all. Teammates of Peter’s showed up, stringy boys dressed in rumpled jackets and poorly tied ties. “Sorry man,” they said, giving awkward boy hugs. Grandpa, it seemed, had attended all the games. Had a jersey with NUMBER ONE FAN printed on it and all the kids’ signatures on the back.

I was the mystery daughter, tacked onto the end of the receiving line. “You must be Justine!” people would say. One person with a familiar face finally showed up, my parents’ tenant, Diane Santos. She and her husband waited at the end of the line parading past the coffin, made their prayer with a nice big Catholic sign of the cross, and worked the line down to me. Diane, like so many of these other strangers, didn’t feel odd about giving me a sympathetic hug. But with Diane, at least we’d been introduced. I’d eaten her food. I thanked her for it with the first genuine sentence I’d spoken since this tortured evening began.