I was eight years old when I saw my first body and it was my mother's funeral that showed me, I never wanted to see another one. It was a somber affair as they all were. I could recall going to dozens of funerals like this one. Agents saying their piece about this woman who had been an amazing partner and saved their skin.

But I hadn't been the one speaking at those. I didn't have to be the one to say those words back then. I had stayed up all night trying to think of the right words to say, but each line I wrote had been crossed off just as quickly as it had been put down.

Now, standing in front of a room full of agents, I found the faces that meant the most to me. Alistair in the back with his wife. Jasper closer to the front with Zara and Dallas on either side of him. My father who only had eyes for me in that moment, red faced from crying but still so steady. And Dexter, standing in the back of the room because there weren't enough seats for everyone who attended.

And I let the words flow from me. All of the thoughts about my mother and her amazing career achievements wafted away. My mother was a hero to many, yes. But she was also a thousand other things to me. I spoke briefly about her work and her education, thanking all those who came out today, then I moved on to the bits that really mattered. I talked about family trips, her hugging me at the end of award ceremonies at school, her laughter ringing through the house when they had dinner parties. I told all the parts that her co -workers never saw. I let my voice crack and my eyes well. Because this was my mom. And losing her was now my reality.

I told them all the things I was grateful for. All of the things that I would wish. And not a single one of them had anything to do with her being an agent. Because, before she was anything else to me, she was my mom. And I would remember her as the woman who made me and the woman who raised me.

I shook hands with what felt like a million people that day. I listened to their own stories of my mom, all of them blending together. she was a great agent. She saved thousands of lives that would never even know that they should be grateful to her. the team would miss her. the workplace would never be the same. I took them all as kindly as I possibly could, nodding along with each statement as if I would treasure it forever.

Then, at the very end of the line came Dex.

Unlike everyone else who had shaken my hand or wrapped me in a hug, Dexter kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his trousers. My eyes ran over him, my mind telling me that the cut of his suit wasn't perfect, that the material was cheap.

"Hey," he greeted softly. And for a moment, he just stood beside me silently, letting me watch the world move around. People sat around small sandwiches and snacks, an edge lifting. After all, a lot of these people only saw each other at funerals or weddings. Now was as good of a time to catch up as any other.

"Are you at the point where you want to punch people in the face yet?' Dex wondered from beside me.

"What?"

He shrugged a little. "That's how I felt at my mom's funeral. I was at the point where if one more person told me that she was in a better place, I was just going to punch them square in the mouth."

I managed a little laugh at that. "Yeah, I do feel that way a little." I cleared my throat, feeling a new wave of tears brush my eyes, and turned to Dexter. "I'm sorry, it must be very hard for you to be here. It must feel very similar."

It was then that he finally pulled his hands from his pockets and took my own clammy ones. "Lonny, you know that I would do anything for you. How could I not be here to support you on a day like today?" he asked. "You and me are a team, you know that."

I did. He was the person that I called when I was in the fox hole. And even though I hadn't seen him since before my flight out to the other side of the country, even though I felt guilt over what I had done and said, he was the person who had given me the confidence to say what I needed to say in front of all these people. I crumpled forward, letting him hold my hands as I pressed my forehead against his chest. I didn't cry. I didn't say anything. I didn't even let out a sniffle. I just let myself rest against his strength. And he just held me there for the few minutes it took to collect my unsteady thoughts.

When I was finally able to raise my head again, there was understanding and compassion in his eyes. His fingers captured the end of one of my bell sleeves, rubbing the velvet. "That's an amazing dress, Lonny."

"Do you think she would have liked it?" I wondered. I had spent all week crafting it while my dad had spent his time preparing for the funeral. We only really spoke when one of us needed to have a good cry or we needed to agree on what kind of flowers she would have liked best or the headstone. Other than that, I had been hunched over my sewing machine. I had dozens of black and white photos printed onto small squares of fabric. Then I had lovingly stitched each photo of my mother – some with me in her arms, some with my dad, some with friends, some on adventures – to the plain white skirt like I was sticking polaroid on a corkboard. The black velvet top had been the easy part that had caused far less tears.

"She would have loved it," Dexter assured.

Then it all came tumbling out. "I'm so sorry. I should have never called you like that. I should have never left. I should have never accused Calvin—"

"Lonny." His arms were around me tightly now, holding me to him. "You don't need to apologize. What happened was insanity. I don't want to hear you say that you're sorry. I just need to know that you are never going to do that again," he whispered into my hair.

"I will never, ever keep you in the dark again, Dex."

And when he pressed his lips to the top of my head, I felt that I could make it through the rest of this funeral. 

~~~Question of the Day~~~

Is a hot dog a sandwich?