Lucas stands in front of the mirror in our bedroom, buttoning his uniform. His fingers tremble and it takes him a minute to even get one button through the hole. I step in front of him and take over. My hands aren’t solid but they shake less than his. He stares down at me with a steely gaze. I can’t tell what he is thinking.

“You need time to grieve,” I insist, practically pleading with him while I finish buttoning his uniform.

“The people want to pay their respects to ...