I was kneeling beside my son Daniel’s casket on a quiet Tuesday, trying to hold myself together in a moment no parent is prepared for. He was twenty-four. My husband Earl stood nearby, and our chaplain spoke gently, but even those small anchors felt distant. Grief has a way of narrowing everything. Then the noise began. Across the road, a group of protesters gathered, their voices cutting through the stillness. My husband and the chaplain tried to shield me from it, but some things reach you anyway. I closed my eyes and wondered how even this moment—one that should have...
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