I was sitting at the table, surrounded by my uncle, his pastor, my brothers, and the funeral director, arranging my father's service.
We were collaborating on the obituary. My family is incredibly southern; I did not grow up in contact with my father's side.
Around the table we go: survived by brother James, sister Phyllis, sons Charles and Matthew, daughter Erin... oh, what was your husband's name?
Now, my uncle had made a beautiful effort to get to know me as my father got sick and deteriorated. He asked after my family, my kids, my mom. When he made reference to my marriage, I let him make assumptions about gender just to avoid complications.
Everything crystallized in that moment over the obit.
"What's your husband's name?"
"...Stephanie."
Pastor didn't miss a beat, neither did funeral director. My brothers tell me that my uncle's head shot up in complete shock.
Whatever he worked out for himself between that look and the time I was ready to check for a reaction, I will never know. But when I looked up for myself, he was smiling at me. He looked at me warmly and mouthed, "Not a problem."
I have a wonderful uncle.