The Iron Harbor Riders attended, but they stood at the back. No motorcycles revving. No spectacle. Just seven men and two women in dark clothes, heads bowed.
I saw Ray and felt anger so intense it frightened me. I walked toward him after the service.
"Please leave."
His face tightened. "Sarah, I need to give you-"
"Leave."
"Daniel-"
"Don't say his name."
Ray stopped.
"You don't get to say his name to me."
He looked as if I had struck him. Then he nodded once and left. Michael put his arm around me.
"You did the right thing," he said.
For eight months, I believed him.
The months after Daniel's death did not pass so much as accumulate.
November became December because decorations appeared in store windows. December became January because the snow grew gray along the curbs. January became February because Maisie brought home a paper heart from school with DAD written inside it and then cried until she fell asleep against my chest. I learned that grief has an administrative department.
Death certificates. Insurance forms. Mortgage documents.
Beneficiary paperwork. Medical bills. The civil claim connected to the crash. School emergency contacts that still listed Daniel as the first number to call.
For weeks, every form contained a small place where my old life had to be corrected. Spouse: deceased. Emergency contact: remove Daniel Mercer. Household income: changed.
Parent or guardian two: blank. I hated that blank space more than almost anything.
The settlement process from the delivery company's insurer moved slowly. Daniel had life insurance through work, but not enough to make us wealthy or even comfortable forever. It paid down a significant portion of the mortgage and gave me breathing room, which was exactly what insurance is supposed to do, but it did not replace his salary or his hands or the way he knew which cabinet door to lift slightly before closing it.
I increased my hours at the health organization when I could. Dorothy, our neighbor, helped with school pickups. Michael came by nearly every weekend and handled repairs Daniel had left unfinished. He replaced the three boards on the back porch.
I cried when I saw them.
"I'm sorry," Michael said.
"They're just boards."
"I know."
But they were not just boards. Nothing was just itself anymore.
Maisie's old wheelchair deteriorated faster than our appeals progressed. The insurance review continued because the claim had been filed before Daniel died, but every call became harder for me. Daniel had known the terminology.
He had kept notes. He had remembered reference numbers. I had depended on him more than I understood until his handwriting became the only map left behind.
Rebecca stayed involved professionally. She never mentioned Ray unless I asked, and I never asked.
She told me the insurer had finally agreed that a replacement base and prescribed seating were medically necessary. That was the good news. The bad news was that approval did not instantly produce a chair.
Components had lead times. New measurements were needed because Maisie had grown. Transportation hardware had to be confirmed. The clinic needed another appointment.
"How long?" I asked.
Rebecca hesitated. "If everything stays on track, several months." I closed my eyes.