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And I was there the day she introduced me to Daniel.

The thought of him slithered into my mind even as I stood beside the casket, and my throat tightened with a mixture of grief and bitterness. Daniel stood near the front pew, impeccably dressed in a flawless black suit, his hair perfectly combed, his expression carved into an image of solemn suffering. People approached him, one after another, touching his arm, shaking his hand, whispering condolences as if he were the one who had lost the most.

He played the role to perfection.

Every so often, one of the older women from the neighborhood would glance at me as if remembering that I was Laura’s father, then quickly drift back toward him, drawn to the gravity of his polished sorrow. I watched the small performances—the bowed heads, the sympathetic nods, the murmured phrases of “So young…” and “Such a tragedy…”—and something inside me recoiled. Not because grief should be measured or compared, but because I knew what lay beneath that controlled exterior.

Throughout the entire ceremony, Daniel barely acknowledged my presence. His eyes slid past me as if I were a piece of furniture, an inconvenient object in the room. The few times our gazes met, his expression didn’t soften. If anything, his jaw tightened, as if my existence annoyed him even here, on the day we buried Laura.

The priest spoke of faith, of eternal rest, of how Laura had now “returned home.” I listened vaguely, hearing only fragments, my mind drifting through memories—her first bicycle, the time she broke her arm climbing a tree, the night we stayed up until dawn because she was afraid of the thunder. When the casket was sprinkled with holy water, the droplets gliding down the wood, it felt like watching the last remnants of my life dissolve.