Dad almost killed us both.
I smiled.
“You were stupid.”
“You told me.”
“You listened.”
“First mistake.”
I laughed.
Michael closed eyes.
Then:
“Empty coffin was weird.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“My first funeral.”
“You weren’t there.”
“Pictures.”
“Who showed?”
“Vanessa eventually.”
I hated thought.
“You want talk about funeral now?”
“Second one.”
My throat closed.
“What about?”
“Make sure I’m in it.”
I laughed and cried at same time.
“You asshole.”
“I mean it.”
“You’ll be there.”
“Check.”
“I’ll check.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He smiled faintly.
Then slept.
He died at 4:16 a.m.
Nora was holding one hand.
I held the other.
There was no dramatic final breath.
Just one breath.
Then another.
Then none.
I knew immediately.
For a long time nobody moved.
I touched his face.
Warm.
Then cooler.
This time I did not have to imagine where my brother was.
That hurt.
It also mattered.
At the funeral home, I asked to see him before visitation.
The director knew our history.
He gave me privacy.
Michael lay in the casket wearing a charcoal suit and a tie Nora picked.
I stood at the doorway.
My entire body resisted entering.
Four decades collapsed.
The first coffin.
Empty.
My mother beside me.
The cemetery.
Dirt.
All false.
I walked closer.
I touched Michael’s shoulder.
Solid.
I hated the relief that came with grief.
“This time I know where you are,” I whispered.
Then I remembered his request.
I looked down deliberately.
“Checked.”
I almost expected him to answer.
Nothing.
That was the truth.
Nora entered quietly.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
We stood.
At service, I refused to tell the hidden-room story.
Everyone knew.
It had become public years earlier through trials and documentaries.
Michael deserved another narrative.
I told about garage roof.
His terrible fishing.
His refusal to follow recipes.
How he once drove six hours to help me move an office and complained every mile.
How he adopted every stray dog except officially.
How he loved Nora.
How he let Lily cheat at cards.
I said:
“My brother spent part of his life being hidden, and far too much of the public story treats being found as the most important thing about him.”
“It wasn’t.”
“He lived for decades after.”
“That was the important part.”
Nora cried.
Lily cried.
I almost made it through.
Then:
“I buried Michael twice.”
The room became still.
“The first funeral taught me what grief feels like when truth is missing.”
“The second taught me truth does not make grief easier.”
“It makes grief real.”