“Then he said it had to be red.”
A few guests looked at one another.
Theo tried to smile.
“He said black made me look like a funeral director, and he refused to have me standing around looking that miserable.”
Someone laughed softly through their tears.
That sounded exactly like my son.
Theo paused to steady himself.
“I kept telling him he was going to recover. I said there wouldn’t be any funeral.”
His voice broke.
“He said he hoped I was right.”
The entire chapel became silent.
“But then he asked me to promise anyway.”
My hands began trembling.
Jack had never told Daniel or me about that conversation.
He’d continued discussing college, traveling, and everything he wanted to do once his treatments were finished.
We’d clung to those plans because imagining the alternative was unbearable.
Yet six months before he died, he’d quietly asked his best friend to prepare for something none of us wanted to face.
