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other oldies, too, who had come—according to my mother—because a funeral made a day out and, like Uncle Barnet, they could never turn down a free bagel brunch.
    Glad as I was to be surrounded and supported by all these people, part of me wished they weren’t there. It was no comfort to hear how shocked and “utterly devastated”
they
were. My dad’s sister Gloria couldn’t stop talking about her devastation. “Me and your uncle Jerry were on holiday in Tenerife when we heard. There we were, just sitting by the pool reading
Fifty Shades of Grey
. I thought I was going to pass out from the shock. But thank God there was a doctor sitting next to us—lovely man—retired gastroenterologist . . . American . . .from Englewood, New Jersey. . . . We have cousins there—the Bermans—but he didn’t know them. . . . Anyway he got me to put my head between my knees. . . .”
    Even though they meant well, it was no consolation to hear from Mike’s workmates what a great, laugh-a-minute guy he’d been. Several told me that before he’d left the office that day to place his final bet, his parting words had been, “Napoleon . . . small bloke or just a long way away?” I wanted to yell at them. “Yes, he made everybody laugh, but you don’t know what he was really like. If you only knew . . .”
    Standing at the graveside in the frigid air, a silent, bewildered child on each hand, I was grateful for one thing. I thanked God that Mike’s parents hadn’t lived to see their son’s coffin being lowered into the ground. He’d always complained about having elderly parents. In the end it turned out to be a blessing.

    •   •   •
    O n the way home in the limo I sat between the children, an arm around each of them.
    “So, is Daddy in Kevin yet?” Ella said. “And how do you get to Kevin?”
    “It’s not
Kevin
,
dummy,” her brother came back. “It’s
heaven
. Angels come to collect you and you fly up into the clouds and you get to meet God.”
    “Can we meet God?” Ella continued. “Do you think Daddy would let us come for a sleepover?”
    Dan opened his mouth, clearly about to deliver another put-down, but I shushed him. “That’s a great idea.” I said to Ella, “AndI’m sure Daddy would love to have you come visit, but unfortunately only people who have died get to go to heaven.”
    “That’s not fair.” She started crying.
    “Oh, sweetie,” I said, pulling her to me. “I know it isn’t fair. It couldn’t be less fair if it tried.”
    It seemed that telling my five-year-old daughter that her daddy was up in heaven being looked after by this kind grandfatherly God hadn’t softened the blow. It had simply left her with abandonment issues.
    “You know,” Dan said, “I still can’t believe Dad’s actually dead.” He was drawing a stick man in the condensation on the car window. “I keep thinking he’s away somewhere and in a few days he’ll be home.”
    “Me, too,” I said, giving him a squeeze. Part of me thought that Mike would be waiting for us when we got back to the house. “Hey—what’s with all the herrings and hard-boiled eggs? Has somebody died?”
    Dan rubbed out his stick man. “Mum . . . you know how God lets people die and then he has to make new ones?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, why doesn’t he make do with the people he’s already got? If he did, then Dad wouldn’t have had to die.”
    “Well, I guess people have to die when they get really old.”
    “Yes, but Dad was only a bit old. God shouldn’t let people die who are only a bit old. It’s a waste.”

    •   •   •
    A few days after the funeral, the children went back to school. I had been expecting protests and tears, but they wentwithout a fuss. It occurred to me that they were glad that things were returning vaguely to normal.
    I stood watching as they were greeted with hugs and homemade cards from their friends. Having lost their dad, they were suddenly the center