The February rain didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to erase the world. It hammered against the windshield of my sedan, fighting the rhythm of the wipers, while Frank Sinatra crooned something about lost love through the static of the radio. It was the kind of weather that felt personal, soaking into the wool of my black coat and settling deep in my marrow.

Ezoic
As I turned onto the familiar driveway, the porch light cut through the gloom—a beacon Margaret had always insisted on keeping lit, “to guide the wanderers home,” she used to say. Through the rain-slicked kitchen window, I caught a glimpse of the refrigerator. The crooked U.S. flag magnet was still there, holding up a recipe for apple crisp, its red and white stripes faded by a decade of summer suns.

Ezoic
I thought the hardest part of the day was behind me. I thought burying the woman who had been more of a mother to me than my own was the finish line of my grief.

Ezoic
I was wrong. I wasn’t driving home to mourn. I was driving home to a war.

Ezoic
The cemetery had been a study in contrast. The ground was a sodden mess of mud and sod, threatening to swallow the pastor’s polished shoes. Ryan stood at the front, his hand resting on his son Daniel’s shoulder, projecting the image of the grieving patriarch. Chloe stood slightly apart, shivering in a coat that cost more than my car, tilting her phone at precise angles to capture the tragedy without ruining her aesthetic.