My son passed away and left me only a plane ticket to rural France. Everyone laughed when I opened the envelope. I went anyway. When I arrived, a driver was waiting with a sign bearing my name, and he said five words that made my heart race. I never expected to bury my child. There is nothing natural about standing under April rain at Greenwood Cemetery in New York, watching a polished mahogany casket descend while you remain above it. Richard was thirty-eight. I am sixty-two. This was not the l

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