Later that day, Gwen spread a stack of funeral paperwork across the dining room table: guest lists, vendor contracts, a draft of the eulogy she’d been too afraid to read aloud. Her pen hovered over a blank line when she felt someone behind her. Elizabeth, hovering in the doorway, her hands in her pockets. “Need help?” she asked.
Gwen hesitated. The guest list was a minefield—old friends of Albert’s, distant relatives, neighbors. Elizabeth had always criticized her for “inviting people who don’t matter.” But today, her tone held no judgment. Just… offer.
“These names,” Gwen said, sliding the list across the table. “If you want to cross-check the phone numbers, that would help. Some of them are from years ago.”
Elizabeth nodded, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She grabbed a pen and leaned in, her brow furrowed in concentration. For nearly an hour, they worked in silence. Gwen watched her out of the corner of her eye: Elizabeth marked missing phone numbers with a red pen, circled misspelled names, added a note next to “Marge Bennett” that said “brings peach pie every Christmas—save her a seat.” When she passed the list back, there was a small nod, no fanfare, no criticism.
For the first time, they weren’t adversaries. They were reluctant partners, bound by a man who was gone.
That evening, they ate leftovers at the kitchen island—cold roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans—and talked about hymns. “Dad loved ‘Amazing Grace,’” Elizabeth said, picking at a potato. “But he hated the slow version. Said it made him sleepy.”
Gwen smiled. “I know. He’d hum the fast one in the shower.” She paused, then added, “I was thinking of ‘How Great Thou Art’ too. That was our wedding song.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Good choice. He’d like that.”