At my son’s funeral, my ex-husband sneered, “He’d still be alive if he’d lived with me.” My family nodded — I broke down.
I was kneeling beside my eight-year-old son’s casket when my ex-husband, Derek, spit on it. The sound was sharp and wet, a desecration that cut through the funeral home’s respectful silence like a gunshot. In front of everyone—our families, our friends, our seven-year-old daughter, Penny—he looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Tommy would…