The Funeral Director's Comfort
"Monica has buried half of Detroit. When she helps a widower through his grief, she discovers that comfort comes in forms she never expected."
Williams & Sons Funeral Home has been in my family for four generations.
I'm Monica Williams—third generation director, fifth generation mourner-comforter. Death doesn't scare me anymore. It's just another transition.
What scares me is the living.
Marcus Thompson loses his wife on a Tuesday.
Cancer, six months of fighting, gone at fifty-two. He comes to arrange services looking like a man who's forgotten how to breathe.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits.
"That's why I'm here." I guide him through the paperwork. "Let me carry what I can."
The service is beautiful.
Two hundred people celebrating Eleanor Thompson's life. Marcus stands at the grave long after everyone leaves.
"Mr. Thompson?" I approach carefully. "The cars are waiting."
"I can't leave her."
"You're not leaving her." I touch his arm. "You're taking her with you, inside. That's what love does."
He looks at me—really looks—and something in his eyes shifts.
"Thank you, Ms. Williams. For everything."
He comes back a week later.
Not for business—just to talk. About Eleanor. About grief. About how the house feels like a tomb.
"I shouldn't be bothering you," he says.
"You're not bothering me." I pour us both tea. "Grief needs witnesses. That's part of my job."
"Is it?"
"The unofficial part."
The visits become routine.
Every Wednesday, Marcus appears at my office. We talk about life, death, the strange space between.
"You ever been married?" he asks one day.
"Once. He couldn't handle what I do."
"What do you do?"
"I sit with death. Hold hands with the dying. Comfort the living." I shrug. "Most people find that morbid."
"I find it beautiful."
"Beautiful?"
"You carry weight that would break most people." He leans forward. "How do you do it?"
"Same way everyone does. One foot in front of the other." I meet his eyes. "Same way you're doing it now."
"I don't feel like I'm doing it at all."
"You're sitting here, talking. That's doing it."
The visits shift over months.
From grief processing to something else. His eyes linger longer. His touches grow warmer.
"Monica..." he says one evening. We're in my office after hours, tea long cold.
"Marcus."
"I feel guilty."
"For what?"
"For wanting to live again." His voice cracks. "For wanting... you."
I should redirect him.
Should talk about the stages of grief, the normalcy of these feelings, the danger of transference.
Instead, I say: "I want you too."
He crosses to me.
Kisses me with the desperation of a man emerging from water. His hands find my face, my shoulders, pulling me against him.
"Tell me this is wrong," he gasps.
"I can't."
"Tell me to stop—"
"I don't want to."
We make love in my office.
Among the brochures for caskets and the sympathy cards. Among all the trappings of death, we choose life.
He undresses me slowly.
"You're beautiful."
"I spend my days with the dead—"
"And you're the most alive person I know." He kisses my neck. "Let me show you."
His mouth travels down my body.
Worships curves that haven't been worshipped in years. He takes his time—learning, adjusting, reading my responses.
"That's it," I gasp when he finds the right spot.
"I've got you." He works me with tongue and fingers until I shatter. "I've got you."
When he enters me, we both exhale.
"Eleanor—"
"Don't." I cup his face. "Don't apologize. She would want you to live."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've sat with enough dying people to know what they want for their loved ones." I pull him deeper. "They want life. Always life."
We move together slowly.
Not frantic—intentional. He makes love like a man rediscovering sensation, feeling everything after months of numbness.
"So good," he breathes. "Monica—"
"Let go. It's okay to feel good."
He comes crying.
Not from sadness—from release. From finally letting something other than grief fill him.
I hold him through it. That's what I do.
Afterward, he's quiet.
"I should feel worse about this."
"Do you?"
"No." He props himself up. "I feel... awake. For the first time in months."
"That's not betrayal, Marcus. That's healing."
"Is it?"
"I've watched enough people grieve to know." I touch his face. "Eleanor isn't diminished by your happiness. She's honored by it."
The relationship grows slowly.
We're careful—I'm still connected to his grief, and we both know it. But over months, he visits less for comfort and more for connection.
"Move in with me," he says eventually.
"People will talk. The funeral director and her client."
"Let them." He pulls me close. "I spent fifty-two years with Eleanor and I don't regret a minute. I'm not wasting whatever time I have left."
I move in.
The first dinner I cook in Eleanor's kitchen, I feel her presence—not angry, just curious.
"Is this okay?" I ask the empty room.
The wind chimes on the porch ring without wind.
I take it as a yes.
Williams & Sons still serves the community.
Marcus helps now—not with the bodies, but with the living. He sits with widowers who need to talk. Shows them that life continues.
"You're good at this," I tell him.
"I learned from the best."
Death still doesn't scare me.
But life—living fully, loving openly—that's what I'm learning now.
Some comforts are physical.
Some are spiritual.
And some funeral directors find their own happy endings.
Among the caskets and the carnations.
Among the grief and the grace.
Life persists.
Love persists.
Even here.
Especially here.