It’s been hard to look anywhere but the coffin at the front of the church. I’m sick to my stomach over what it represents—the death of my mother. I shouldn’t have to help pick out my mother’s casket at twenty-seven. There’s still so much she was supposed to be there for in my life. My wedding. Coming home with grandkids. Dad fully retiring so they could travel more. She wasn’t supposed to go so early. I wasn’t ready to let her go.
