At my father’s funeral, he whispered, “I changed the locks on your $30 million condo. If you don’t like it, we’ll divorce.” I laughed — because he had no idea what that condo really was.

The chapel smelled like lilies and damp coats, like rain and grief mixing in the air while the world pretended to be respectful. People whispered condolences I couldn’t remember. My father’s casket rested at the front like a sealed truth — final, heavy, impossible to negotiate.

My name is Jordan Callahan, and that morning I was standing in black heels that hurt, wearing a black dress that felt more like armor than clothing, trying to understand how life could erase someone so completely and expect the people left behind to just continue breathing as if oxygen hadn’t suddenly become heavier.

While the choir hummed softly, my husband slid closer, the way husbands do when they are supposed to be offering comfort. His hand rested at the small of my back — not gently, not lovingly — but with a possessive pressure that reminded me of every time he wanted to look supportive in public.

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