The service started the way funerals usually do. The organ hummed softly, the priest offered kind words, and my mother—Catherine—sat beside me, pale but composed, her fingers laced tightly in her lap. Then, midway through prayer, the church doors opened.

She entered.

An older woman, perhaps seventy or more, walking slowly down the aisle in a white wedding gown. Not the dramatic kind with sequins and tulle—but a simple, elegant dress with lace sleeves, a high neckline, and delicate gloves. Her gray hair was pinned neatly, her face a mixture of sorrow and quiet resolve.

At first, I thought she had wandered into the wrong place. But when I looked at my mother’s face, drained of all color, I knew better. The woman walked straight to my father’s casket, placed her trembling hand on the polished wood, and whispered:

“You finally saw me in white, Daniel.”