You do not turn when the woman in red whispers it the first time.
“I won.”
The words brush your ear like ice water, too soft for anyone else to hear, too cruel to be an accident. You keep your eyes on your daughter’s casket because if you look at that woman too soon, you know exactly what will happen. You will forget where you are, forget the pastor, forget the flowers, forget the polished church floor and the mourners in black, and remember only that your daughter is dead while her husband walks in laughing with the woman he was sleeping with.
So you breathe instead.
