The cemetery on the hill above Elmwood overlooked the Fox River like it was keeping watch. Late April had finally decided to show up—grass green enough to hurt your eyes, dogwoods blooming white and pink, air smelling like cut lawn and second chances. I stood at Emily’s headstone in my least-wrinkled button-down, the one Lily had ironed for me because “Dad, you can’t show up looking like you slept in the truck again.”
