“Direct cremation. Basic container. Ninety-five dollars.”
The funeral director slid the paper across the desk toward me. He did it gently, the way he’d probably done it a thousand times. His name was Gary Nygaard. He’d buried my grandparents. He’d buried half of Pope County.
I looked down at the paper.
At the bottom, in my brother’s handwriting, was his signature. Kevin Sorensen. Next of kin. Dated Friday.
Dad had died Thursday morning.
“Kevin,” I said. “What is this?”
My brother was sitting in the chair next to me with his arms crossed. He’s forty-four. He sells used cars in Alexandria. He has two kids, an ex-wife, and a mortgage he’s been behind on since spring.
“It’s what we’re doing,” he said.
“Did you talk to Mom about this?”
“I talked to Gary.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Kevin uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. He talked low, like Mom couldn’t hear him. She was sitting right there. On the little loveseat by the window, with her purse in her lap and her coat still buttoned.
“Julie, Mom doesn’t have money for a casket. Have you seen what they cost? Gary showed me the room. The cheapest one’s twenty-eight hundred dollars. The nice ones are eight, ten thousand. For a box. That goes in the ground.”
“It’s Dad.”
“Dad’s dead.” Kevin said it flat. “He’s gone. He’s not in there anymore. He won’t know the difference.”
I felt my face go hot.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he’d rather Mom keep her money. He was the cheapest man alive. He drove the same truck for twenty-two years. He fixed his own shoes with Shoe Goo. You think he wants Mom spending ten grand on a box?”
I looked over at Mom.
She hadn’t said a word since we sat down. She was looking out the window at the parking lot, where the first snow of the year was coming down light and slow. She had her hands folded on top of her purse. She was seventy-nine years old and she’d been married to my father for fifty-eight years and she had not cried once since Thursday.
“Mom,” I said. “Did Kevin ask you about this?”
She turned from the window.
She looked at Kevin. Then at me. Then at Gary.
Then she reached over and picked up the paper with the ninety-five dollars on it. She read it. She took her time.
Then she folded it in half. Neatly. Lined up the corners.
“Take me home, please,” she said.
Kevin let out a long breath. “Mom, we need to sign this today. Gary needs to know by—”
“Take me home, Julie.”
She stood up. She buttoned her coat to the top, even though it was already buttoned. She walked out of Gary Nygaard’s office with the folded paper in her hand.
I got up and followed her.
Behind me, I heard Kevin say, “Great. Great. This is great,” and the chair scrape back.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.