THREE KNOCKS

And for exactly three seconds, I thought grief had finally made me lose my mind.

**Tap.**

**Tap.**

**Tap.**

I stood beside the white casket with one palm still resting on its polished lid, staring down at the place where everyone kept telling me my mother was supposed to be dead.

The funeral hall smelled of lilies, furniture polish, and something chemical I couldn’t identify. Bright chandeliers hung over rows of empty chairs. White roses surrounded the coffin so heavily that they almost hid the metal handles.

Outside the double doors, I could hear adults speaking in low voices.

My mother’s coworkers.

Neighbors.

Relatives I barely knew.

People preparing themselves to walk into the room and tell me how sorry they were.

I didn’t want their sympathy.

I wanted my mother.

That was why I had slipped away before the service began.

I wanted thirty seconds alone with her.

Just thirty.

I put my hand back on the coffin.

My voice cracked.

“I’m sorry I never got to say goodbye, Mom.”

Then I heard it again.

Not from the wall.

Not from the floor.

**From inside the coffin.**

A weak thump.

My stomach dropped.

“Mom?”

Nothing.

I leaned closer until my cheek nearly touched the cool white wood.

“Mom, if that’s you…”

I swallowed.

“Do it again.”

For several unbearable seconds, there was only silence.

Then—

**Tap. Tap. Tap.**

My knees almost gave out.

Those knocks were not random.

My mother had used the same pattern for as long as I could remember.

When I was six and afraid of thunderstorms, she would stop outside my bedroom every night and knock three times before entering.

When I was eight and started insisting I was “too old” for bedtime hugs, she would still knock three times before walking away.

When I was eleven and embarrassed by everything parents did, she stopped opening the door altogether.

She would simply knock.

Three times.

Our secret language.

**Three knocks meant: I love you.**