“Yes,” I said quietly. “I do.”
My hand trembled as I signed the paperwork. He handed me a tissue. I felt nothing. I just stared at the number on the page. Sixty-four hundred dollars.
I thought about Brandon’s wedding. One hundred and ten thousand dollars. Mine? Forty-two hundred.
And Lily? Nothing from them. Not a dollar. Not a present. Not even a flower.
On June 5, Daniel texted me. “I can’t come to the funeral. I’m sorry. I’m staying with my brother in Portland. I need space.”
I called him. Voicemail.
I left one message. “Lily was your daughter too.”
He never called back.
Two days later, I received an email from his lawyer. Divorce petition. Irreconcilable differences. We had been married for three months and eighteen days.
I sat in front of my laptop. No tears. No reaction.
I just opened a blank document and started writing.
Meanwhile, my mother was posting. Between June 4 and June 8, six separate updates about Ethan’s party: decorations, a custom tropical cake, performers, everything curated, everything perfect.
One caption read, “Can’t wait to celebrate our special boy.”
I saw every post. I didn’t react. I just took screenshots, saved them, labeled them.
On June 6, she posted again. “Countdown to Ethan’s epic pool party. Grandma and Grandpa can’t wait. Nothing beats celebrating life with the ones who matter most.”
Forty-seven likes. Dozens of comments. All congratulating her.
I opened her profile. There was nothing. No mention of Lily. No acknowledgment. No grief. It was as if my daughter had never existed.
On June 7, Brandon called. Rare. He usually avoided calls.
“Look,” he said, “I feel bad about Lily. I do. But we spent twenty-two thousand dollars on this event. It’s been planned since March. Ethan’s been looking forward to it for months. You can’t expect us to cancel.”
“I’m not asking you to cancel,” I said. “I’m asking you to show up for one hour.”
“Jade, be reasonable. It’s the same time. I can’t be in two places.”
“You’re choosing a pool party over a funeral.”
There was a pause. Then he said it. “I’m choosing my living son over—”
He stopped. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
The line went dead. He hung up.
I played the recording again later that night. I had started using a call-recording app after that first conversation with my mother. Something in me had already known I would need proof.
Brandon’s voice came through clearly.
“Jade, your baby was six weeks old. She barely existed. Ethan is eight. He has memories. He has feelings. I’m not missing his day for something that won’t change anything.”
Barely existed.
Six weeks. Forty-two days. One thousand and eight hours. Lily existed in every single one of them.
The final call came on June 8. That evening I called my mother one last time. I wasn’t begging anymore. I just needed to understand.
“Mom, I only need you there for one hour. From two to three. Then you can go to the party.”
She exhaled, already tired of the conversation. “Jade, honey, you don’t understand. We’re the host’s parents. We can’t just show up late. People will talk.”
I felt something tighten, but I kept my voice steady. “You’re more worried about people talking about you being late to a pool party than missing your granddaughter’s funeral?”
Her tone sharpened instantly. “Don’t try to guilt-trip me. You’re being selfish.”
And then she said it, the sentence that never left me.
“Jade, it’s just a baby. She wouldn’t even remember if we were there. But Ethan will remember if his grandparents miss his birthday. Your brother’s milestone matters more. That’s just reality.”
My hands were shaking, but my voice stayed calm. “Okay, Mom. I understand. Enjoy the party.”
I ended the call.
She didn’t know I had recorded it.
In the background, I heard my father’s voice, distant and dismissive. “Tell her we’ll send flowers.”
The flowers that never came.
The morning of the funeral, I woke up early. The first thing I did was check my phone. No messages. No emails. No delivery confirmation. Nothing.
I called the funeral home. Richard confirmed it gently. “No additional flower orders under the Sinclair name.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
I hung up, opened my Notes app, and typed: promised flowers, not sent.
June 9, 6:03 a.m.
I got dressed. Black dress. Simple. I stood in front of the mirror, and for the first time since Lily died, I didn’t feel anything. Just cold, controlled, clear. Crisis-counselor mode. I would get through the day, and after that, I would make sure they never forgot it.
Evergreen Washelli Chapel had twenty chairs arranged in two rows. Ten on the left, ten on the right. I knew exactly which side belonged to my family.
I arrived early.
Sophie Bennett was already there. She pulled me into a tight hug. A few minutes later, Rachel Moore walked in. She had driven three hours just to be there. Then Dr. Melissa Carter arrived right before the service began.
At exactly 2:00, Richard Hail stepped forward. “Would you like to wait a few more minutes?”
I looked at the empty row to my left. Ten untouched chairs.
“No,” I said quietly. “Let’s begin.”
