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The wake

Nancy

I was leaning against the large window, watching Charles' wake unfold with a mix of relief and discomfort. Relief knowing that my children, Amber and Peter, were far from all that farce, in New York, and discomfort because, even without wanting to, I was there, in the middle of it all, witnessing every morbid detail of this performance. Nothing there seemed genuine. Charles Morton's death was a spectacle, and everyone played their roles perfectly.

Bruce, of course, was at the center of it all. Dressed impeccably in black, he seemed to fulfill his role as a grieving son almost automatically. His serious but restrained expression, the way he received greetings and condolences—everything was so calculated. I watched him from a distance, recognizing the mechanical gestures of someone suffocated by responsibility but without allowing any emotion to escape.

It was then that I noticed three young women approaching, wearing clothes that were clearly inappropriate for the occasion. Tight
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