Chương 4
Margaret stared at him.
“Her phone?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“At home.”
“Why do you have it?”
The question was simple.
The effect was not.
Nathan looked around.
“I’m her husband.”
The answer was supposed to end the conversation.
It did not.
Margaret felt Sophie move closer.
The child had stopped looking at Nathan.
She was looking at Margaret now.
Waiting.
Trusting.
That responsibility felt heavier than anything Margaret had carried in her life.
“I want the phone,” Margaret said.
Nathan laughed once.
A short, empty sound.
“You want the phone?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my daughter had it when she died.”
Nathan’s face tightened.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Nathan looked at the crowd.
“This is becoming ridiculous.”
A man sitting near the back finally spoke.
“Maybe you should let the police handle it.”
Nathan looked at him.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man shrugged.
“No.”
He looked toward Emily’s coffin.
“But neither do you, apparently.”
That sentence affected Nathan more than Margaret expected.
Not because of the words.
Because of who said them.
A stranger.
Someone who had no reason to protect Margaret.
Someone who had no history with Emily.
The room was beginning to separate itself from him.
Nathan reached into his jacket pocket.
Margaret watched carefully.
He pulled out his phone.
“Fine.”
He unlocked the screen.
“I’ll show you.”
He opened something.
Then stopped.
A tiny hesitation.
Less than a second.
But it happened.
Margaret saw his thumb hover.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then show us.”
Nathan looked at her.
The old confidence returned briefly.
“You really think I did something?”
Margaret did not answer.
That bothered him.
Because if she accused him, he could argue.
If she screamed, he could call her emotional.
But she simply waited.
That gave him nowhere to go.
“I loved Emily,” he said.
His voice was quieter now.
Some people in the room looked at him.
Margaret almost believed him.
Almost.
Then she remembered something.
Emily had once told her about a dinner where Nathan apologized after an argument.
He had cried.
He had said he could not imagine life without her.
The next morning, he had acted as if nothing happened.
Margaret had not understood the pattern then.
Now she did.
An apology without change was not always regret.
Sometimes it was just another way to reset the situation.
The front doors opened.
Two uniformed officers entered the chapel.
The conversation stopped.
Nathan looked toward them.
For the first time, his fear became visible.
Not because police had arrived.
Because they had arrived before he was ready.
One officer approached Margaret.
“Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Ramirez.”
He glanced at the coffin.
Then at Nathan.
“We need everyone to remain calm.”
Nathan immediately stepped forward.
“Officer, this is a misunderstanding.”
Officer Ramirez held up a hand.
“I’ll hear everyone.”
The words were polite.
Professional.
But they did not comfort Nathan.
Because they did not put him in charge.
Margaret handed over her phone.
The officer listened briefly.
Then looked at Sophie.
“Is she your granddaughter?”
“Yes.”
“Is there another parent available?”
Margaret looked at Nathan.
Nobody spoke.
The officer noticed the silence.
Sophie held Margaret’s hand tighter.
“I want Grandma.”
The officer crouched slightly.
“Okay.”
His voice softened.
“You can stay with Grandma.”
Nathan stared at Sophie.
Not angrily.
Not yet.
Something else crossed his face.
A realization.
Sophie had chosen.
And everyone had seen it.
Margaret looked at her granddaughter and felt a painful mixture of relief and sadness.
She wanted to tell Sophie she was brave.
She wanted to tell her she should never have had to be.
Instead, she squeezed her hand.
Because sometimes children did not need another speech.
Sometimes they needed one person who stayed.
Because sometimes children did not need another speech.
Sometimes they needed one person who stayed.
The officers spoke quietly near the entrance while the funeral home staff tried to keep the remaining guests from crowding the aisle.
Nobody wanted to be the first person to leave.
Leaving felt like choosing a side.
Margaret understood that.
She had spent enough years in hospitals to know that people often waited in uncertain moments because moving meant admitting something had changed.
Nathan remained near the chairs he had fallen into.
He had stopped trying to fix his appearance.
His tie was slightly loose.
His hair was no longer perfectly arranged.
For the first time since Margaret had known him, he looked like someone who could not repair the image he had built.
Officer Ramirez returned after speaking with the detective.
“Mrs. Collins, Detective Clooney would like you to remain available.”
Margaret nodded.
“Is he coming here?”
“He’s on his way.”
Nathan immediately looked up.
“Why?”
Officer Ramirez looked at him.
“Because there are questions.”
“I already explained what happened.”
“No one said you didn’t.”
Nathan looked frustrated by the calm answer.
He wanted disagreement.
He wanted something he could fight.
Instead, everyone around him stayed professional.
That seemed to make him more nervous.
Margaret noticed his hands.
He kept rubbing his thumb against the side of his finger.
A small movement.
Almost childish.
She remembered Emily mentioning that Nathan did it whenever he lied.
At the time, she had thought it was just a strange habit.
Now every forgotten detail seemed to return with a different meaning.
Officer Ramirez asked the funeral director to step aside.
A few guests began leaving quietly.
The woman who had spoken earlier stopped beside Margaret before walking out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Margaret looked at her.
“For what?”
The woman glanced toward Sophie.
“For not noticing.”
Margaret had no answer.
Because she had the same regret.
Not noticing.
Not asking enough.
Not pushing harder.
Mothers were supposed to protect their children.
But sometimes children became adults who learned how to hide pain from the people who loved them most.
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Sophie sat in one of the wooden chairs beside Margaret.
Her feet did not touch the floor.
