At my husband’s funeral, a little girl I had never seen whispered that he had promised I would take care of her. Then she handed me a videotape with his handwriting on it, and everything I thought I knew about our quiet, childless marriage began to unravel.
The first time I saw Matilda, she was standing beside my husband’s casket with rainwater dripping from the ends of her braids, clutching a faded purple backpack like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Morgan had disappeared twenty minutes earlier, saying she needed to check on the food at the house.
Most people had already drifted away from me by then.
They had hugged me, murmured the usual things, and moved toward the chapel doors with their black coats and careful faces.
But this little girl came closer.
They had hugged me.
“Mrs. Camille?”
I turned with the damp tissue my best friend, Morgan, had pressed into my palm. “Yes, sweetheart? Do I know you?”
She shook her head.
Then she said the sentence that made the whole funeral tilt under my feet.
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