Wes had been beside Miles since they were seven. He lived four houses away and eventually spent so much time with us that our spare bedroom became his room. His parents’ bitter divorce made holidays difficult, so he often celebrated Christmas with our family. Miles never questioned it. He simply told me, “Mom, Wes is staying.” I always said yes.

When Miles became sick, Wes stayed close. He did homework beside his hospital bed, watched terrible movies with him, and remained present through hair loss, steroids, and frightening scans. He stayed when Miles couldn’t speak and when fear made him talk endlessly. Russell and I worked opposite shifts while trying to keep our jobs, so sometimes Wes spent more time with our son than we could.

At the podium, Wes explained that six months earlier, Miles had asked him to speak at his funeral. Wes had angrily told him to shut up, refusing to imagine such a future. Then Miles had joked, “I’ll speak at your funeral when you show up to mine wearing a dress.” Wes had refused, but Miles insisted the dress had to be red because black made Wes look like an undertaker.

Now, standing before Miles’s coffin, Wes wiped his tears and admitted he had promised to wear it. He had made that promise because Miles had asked him to, and because their friendship meant everything. “I told him there wasn’t going to be a funeral,” Wes confessed. “I said he was going to get better.” His voice broke as he remembered Miles answering, “Probably.” Then Wes revealed that Miles had made him promise something else, too, something he had never expected to fulfill.