…I drove to the VFW hall, walked in among Roy’s men in my black dress, and I told them what that funeral director did to me.
You have never seen a room go quiet so fast, or fill up so fast with fight.
First, they set me straight on the lie. A funeral home does not control the death certificate — the county does. That man had no more power to hold Roy’s certificate hostage than the mailman. One of Roy’s post brothers drove me to the county office and I had the certificate in my hand by eleven, no charge.
Then, the bill. Another of the men is a retired JAG lawyer, and he had a great deal to say about a signed, itemized agreement that “changes” to double after the service, about charges for a casket upgrade I never ordered, and about a federal rule — the Funeral Rule, he called it — that a director told to a grieving widow’s face he simply doesn’t follow. He filed with the state funeral board and the attorney general that same week.
I paid exactly what I signed for. Not one dollar more. The inflated invoice was withdrawn, an apology attached, and the board opened a case — because I was not, it turned out, the first widow he’d worked that way.
The best part: eight of Roy’s post brothers walked me back into that funeral home in their VFW caps to settle up, and stood behind my chair while I wrote the honest check. The director could not look up from his desk.
They told me at the graveside to call if I ever needed a single thing. I have never in my life been so glad I did.
He told a widow that grief was no excuse not to pay — never once counting the two dozen old soldiers who’d promised her husband’s grave they would look after his wife.