My son died suddenly at 35. At his funeral, his widow’s performance of grief was perfect. But I knew she was lying. Just as they were about to close the casket, I stood up. “Stop,” I said. I pointed to the rosary in his hands and asked, “That’s yours, isn’t it, Chloe?”
The air inside the Boston funeral home felt thick—perfumed with lilies and false sorrow. I, Maria Sullivan, stood by the back wall, clutching a crumpled tissue that had long since dried. In front of the open casket lay my son, Michael Sullivan, gone at thirty-five. They said it was his heart — “a sudden failure…