There were just three of them at the Russian Orthodox funeral: Val, Tony, and the elderly priest, Father Methodius. Three living people, that is: her father lay in an open coffin with a wreath across his forehead, a cross and the Trisagion prayer in his right hand. Val avoided looking at his pale features and thin strands of gray hair as they circled the coffin, while the priest sprinkled holy oil and recited from the Book of Psalms: “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.”

The smell of incense caught the back of her throat and the rhythm of the words tugged upon childhood memories that made her feel unbearably sad. As the casket was closed, sealing in her father for time everlasting, grief choked her and she sniffed back tears. Now there was no chance of her questions being answered. She would never understand what had happened to her mother, and what had made him such a bitter, angry man.

If only there were extended family members—a cousin or a sibling, someone to share this with; but there weren’t any more blood relatives, not even any close friends. Tony had met her father a couple of times but only briefly, so he was unlikely to shed any light.

After the funeral, the full weight of grief descended upon Val. It felt as if she were wearing a suit of chain mail that made her movements slow and difficult. She was tired all the time and often lay on the sofa while Nicole was at preschool, staring into space, nothing particular in her head.

“You’ll have to clear the house,” Tony told her. “Make a pile of anything that can be sold and junk the rest. Sooner we can get it on the market, the better.”

He didn’t notice her depression, wouldn’t have understood it if he had. Why should she feel grief for a father she hadn’t seen for seventeen years? She couldn’t understand it herself. Nicole sensed it, though, and climbed onto her lap for frequent cuddles, twirling Val’s jet-black hair around her little fist and offering kisses from her cherry-colored lips.