People were already leaning against the walls around the mortuary when we sat down in the last two chairs on the end of the back row. I wasn’t sure where to sit at my brother’s funeral.

My husband leaned over to ask about the people in the old photos scrolling on the screen hanging from the ceiling. He recognized the one of the eight- year- old girl holding her brother in footed pajamas across her lap. I began explaining the crooked arm of my family tree in a whisper, when a friend stood up and waved us over to the front row.

I told her I assumed there wasn’t enough room.

It’s what my father told me on the phone when I asked if I could live with him during my teen years. I’ve been hesitant to assume there is a place for me now.

Will  you join me over at to read the rest of the story? I want to thank you for following me there last month, my first post at Living the Story was third in the number of views for the website in the month of October. Doing the happy dance over that one! I would be honored to see you over there in the comments again this month.