I actually turned to the boys sitting near me and started asking questions. Did something happen? Did they argue? Was this about something? Nobody knew. Everyone was staring at Wes. Part of me thought he had done it on purpose, choosing my son’s funeral to attract attention. I didn’t know whether to ask someone to take him outside or simply sit through it.

My husband, Russell, stood up without saying a word. I grabbed his sleeve because I knew exactly what he intended to do. Then Wes walked toward the podium. He stood silently while people whispered behind me. Finally, he looked across the room. “I know half of you want me out of here right now,” he said, struggling to continue.

He looked down at his bright red dress. “And I know how this looks. It isn’t even mine. I borrowed it from my sister. The reason I’m standing here in it is very simple. And it’s the saddest thing I know.” He pulled the microphone closer, swallowed hard, and began speaking.

My son, Miles, died seventeen days after his eighteenth birthday. Cancer had taken him fourteen months after his diagnosis. Those facts could never explain the boy we had lost. Miles loved old horror movies, burned grilled cheese, hated tomatoes, and somehow put ketchup on everything. He could name almost every world capital but never remembered his laundry.