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His mother, Diane Carter, shattered the hush. She faced me, chin raised, voice sharp. “Better he’s gone now than forced to live with the embarrassment she brought him,” she said loudly. Whispers followed. A cousin nodded. An aunt murmured approval. My throat tightened. I wanted to speak—to remind them of hospital nights and extra shifts—but grief locked my words in place.
Then I felt a small hand touch my arm.
Evan, my eight-year-old son, stood up from the pew. His black suit hung awkwardly on his growing frame. He held Mark’s phone with both hands, the case worn from years of use. His face was pale but composed, the way it looked when he focused on something important.
“Grandma,” Evan said clearly, “do you want me to play the recording Dad made about you last week?”
Diane’s expression faltered. Color drained from her face. “Sit down,” she snapped, then softened her tone. “This is not appropriate.”
Evan didn’t sit. He glanced at me, silently asking. My heart pounded, but I nodded. Mark had done nothing without purpose.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” Diane said quietly, stepping forward.
Evan’s thumb hovered over the screen. The minister shifted uneasily. Someone coughed. Chairs creaked as the room leaned closer.
“Dad said,” Evan continued, “that if you ever lied about Mom, I should press play.”
He did.
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