PART 2
The cemetery was almost empty when I arrived.
A thin October wind moved through the maple trees, scattering brittle leaves across the narrow asphalt path. The sun had gone down behind the hills, leaving behind a bruised purple sky. Somewhere beyond the stone wall, traffic hummed on the highway, distant and indifferent.
I parked beside the old iron fence and walked toward my father’s grave.
Arthur Bennett.
1937–2011.
Beloved Husband. Beloved Father.
I stood in front of his headstone with my arms wrapped around myself.
For years, I had hated the fact that his last words about Mark had been bitter.
“That man will disappoint you one day, Carol.”
I had accused my father of being unfair.
Suspicious.
Old-fashioned.
Mark had been a good husband, I told myself. A good father. A hardworking man.
Thirty-one years of marriage had seemed like proof.
Now I stared at my father’s
name carved into gray stone and whispered, “You were right.”
Headlights appeared along the cemetery road.
Daniel’s truck.
He parked too fast, gravel snapping beneath the tires.
The driver’s door flew open.
“Mom?”
Daniel hurried toward me wearing navy work pants and a gray jacket from the hospital where he worked maintenance overnight. His face was pale with worry.
“What happened? Is somebody hurt?”
I looked at my son.
