The funeral is tomorrow morning. I’ve written a eulogy, which was hard because I’d thought I couldn’t say anything at all.
My father is grief-stricken and pretending not to be. He is brave in front of people, but his shoulders slump and his face falls when he thinks no-one’s looking.
He was asleep on the couch this afternoon. He was reaching for her hand while he slept. But it wasn’t there. He suddenly woke up, panicked, and called out, “Where’s Sophie?”
My poor sister had to say, “I’m sorry, Dad; Sophie’s gone. She died on Friday.”
Dad lifted his hands up and brought them down together, to show that his moment of panic hadn’t been important. “Of course. I’m sorry. Sorry, of course. She’s dead, I know.”
He’s a brave man, and his first instinct, always, is the feelings of others.
My poor father.