I sit back in my chair and David releases my wrist. Fine, I will sit here, but I don’t need to hear about my daughter. I spin my wedding ring around on my finger. It’s looser by the month. Beside me, Betsy cries softly into her tissue. I look past her down the row, expecting to see Josh, forgetting they broke up. Poor Betsy, all alone. I touch her knee, patting it softly. I look over my right shoulder and I’m surprised to see Sam, my driver, standing behind the last row of chairs. His presence calms me. I take a deep breath. How nice of him to be here for me. I nod at him and he smiles.

I feel a shift next to me and watch in disbelief as David stands and walks to the front. I didn’t know we have speaking parts. I’m not prepared. I haven’t rehearsed any lines. I could tell them all about Mary, about how she was the daughter everyone would want to have, until she picked a different mother. I could tell them about my heartbreak, my anger, my sadness. I loved Mary. I pull a tissue out of my purse. I could explain to them all that I’m not like my own horrible mother. That I was a good mom, the best mom: the only mother Mary needed. I could tell them all how much I miss her, every day.

But I’m not the one at the podium. I look up, and there’s David, backlit by the setting sun, the crashing waves.

He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads: “‘Thank you all for coming this evening. On behalf of the rest of Mary’s family, Betsy, Jane and my parents, David and Rosemary, we want you to know we couldn’t have made it through this last year without you.’”

I flip open the program and realize David will be speaking for all of us. I’m not on the agenda, even though I would have had the best delivery, the best performance. Fine. I take a breath and relax. My mind drifts to a house on a tree-lined street, the next community over. I thought it was for us, to start over. Instead, it’s for new beginnings. I look up to the podium and David has tears running down his face.

“‘She was my pride and joy. Along with her sister, the girls made my life happy and worthwhile.’” David pauses, wipes under his eyes. “‘I’ll never get over Mary’s loss, but because of all of you, I can go on. Please, stay and join us for a sunset cocktail in Mary’s memory. Come and tell me your favorite story about my daughter. She’ll be alive in all of our hearts, forever.’”

“Amen,” the pastor says and leads the way to the open bar, followed closely behind by David.