My Grave Became His Confessional

Today was my son's funeral.

I knelt in front of the small, brand-new headstone, the muddy ground soaking through my dress.

A handful of cemetery staff lingered nearby, growing impatient. They were just waiting for me to leave so they could finish up and get on with their day.

Suddenly, a black Maybach screeched to a stop at the gates. Lucian stormed in, his designer suit rumpled and reeking of alcohol and Camilla’s perfume.

"Irene! How long are you going to keep this up?!"

There was no trace of fatherly concern in Lucian’s voice—only anger at having his plans ruined. He strode over, grabbed my delicate arm, and yanked me up out of the mud.

"You called me thirty times, and now you’re here putting on a show here just to make me leave Camilla’s birthday party? You actually went so far as to say our son died?" He looked at my disheveled state with open disgust. "Irene, your games are absolutely revolting."

I stumbled at his grip.

Slowly, I lifted my head and looked calmly at the furious man in front of me.

"Look closely." My voice was hoarse and broken, as if I had glass shards in my throat.

Lucian paused, following my gaze.

There it was—a cold, marble headstone.

The little boy in the black-and-white photo was smiling, bright and innocent. Below his birthdate, the end date was just yesterday.

Lucian’s eyes lingered on the picture.

But there was no shock, not even the slightest furrow of his brow.

"You really went all out for this act, huh? Even got a headstone made as a prop."

He let go of my arm, brushing off his sleeve as if I’d gotten him dirty.

"Where’s our son? Did you hide him somewhere? Or did you just leave him in the car to play along with your little stunt?"

Surprisingly, I felt no anger at all. My voice was steady, almost detached. "If you’d come three hours earlier, you could’ve made it to the cremation. If you’d come an hour earlier, you would’ve seen him buried. But now, Lucian, you’re too late."

"Enough!" Lucian snapped, cutting me off. "Stop with the theatrics. You know I’m busy—Camilla’s waiting for me to cut the cake. Pulling something like this just to get attention only makes me see you even less."

Staring at him, I suddenly felt exhausted.

He didn’t love me, and he didn’t love our child. To him, our son’s life—or death—meant less than a slice of birthday cake for Camilla.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

It was the death certificate.

Lucian glanced down, his eyes landing on it.

Black ink on white paper, stamped with a bright red seal.

He saw it, clear as day.

But there still wasn’t even a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

He just frowned. "He’s really gone? You couldn’t even take care of a kid—what good are you for anything else? Now that it’s done, let’s go. Don’t embarrass yourself here and bring bad luck to Camilla."

In that moment, the wind in the cemetery sounded like the wailing of ghosts.

I looked at him as if he were a complete stranger. The thread I’d held onto for seven years finally snapped.

I turned away, letting the rain wash over my face, not sparing him another glance.

"Stop right there!" Lucian barked behind me, his voice carrying that familiar note of command. "Who said you could leave? Get in the car!"

I didn’t stop. Rain streamed down my back.

"Lucian, we’re done."