…gave your consent. There’s a signature with your name on it.”
The cemetery director, Mr. Lyons, slid the application across the desk. My son, Brian, had asked to have his father’s remains removed, cremated and placed in a “family niche” at a cheaper facility. The double plot, which I’d bought so I could be buried beside my husband, would then be resold. Plots in that old section of the cemetery are worth more than thirty thousand dollars each.
“I never approve a disinterment without speaking to the plot owner myself,” Mr. Lyons said. “You own the plot, Mrs. Thompson. Not your son.”
The signature on the consent form was a crude copy of mine.
Mr. Lyons denied the application on the spot and reported the forgery to the police. Then he helped me file a permanent instruction with the cemetery: no one may move my husband, or me when my time comes, under any circumstances.
I showed my son the video in my living room. I didn’t say a word. I just pressed play.
He watched himself filming his wife dancing on his father’s grave. Halfway through, he turned it off.
“She said it would help us move on,” he whispered. “She said Dad was always controlling.”
“Your father paid for your college,” I said. “He drove you to every hockey practice for ten years. That’s not control. That’s love.”
Brian was charged with forgery. His wife was banned from the cemetery. On Sunday, I brought white roses to my husband’s grave, as always. There was a second bouquet already there. The card said, “I’m sorry, Dad. — B.”
