The chapel was heavy with silence, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every breath feel louder than it should. Rows of black coats and bowed heads blurred together, but when Reba McEntire stepped through the doors, all eyes shifted — not just because of who she was, but because of who she had come to mourn.
By her side stood Rex Linn, his hand steady at the small of her back as they moved toward the front. The white flowers, the framed photograph, the weight of the moment — it was all too much. Reba’s gaze stayed locked on the casket, as if afraid that looking anywhere else would break her.
It was then, just before they reached their seats, that Rex leaned in. No cameras caught the words. No one else was close enough to hear. But those who saw the way Reba froze — the way her eyes shimmered and her lips pressed together as if to hold something in — knew that whatever he said wasn’t just comfort.
It was personal.
It was unexpected.
And it may have been the one thing that kept her standing.
