The Family that is Chosen

So I'm sitting in the back of the memorial service for the woman that was very nearly my mother-in-law. I will not impose my presence, as this is a family matter and I'm not blood. A woman who is blood, a daughter of the departed, comes over and sits beside me in the back.
This is also the same woman who was very nearly my wife. Our personal history isn't important, especially today. She is the child paying her last respects to her mother. I am here to support her. Because she's a person in pain. A person who happens to be a friend.
When sentiments are solicited, there is a reluctance on the part of some to speak. It is not that they have nothing to say. It is not that some are not comfortable speaking in public. It's because the reality is weighing heavily, and overcoming their composure.
I get up and walk to the podium. The woman who was very nearly my wife looks surprised.
I thank everyone for coming, and identify myself as the one here who knew the departed the least. So far as details and facts, anyway. I relate to them a story of how the departed and I did not initially get along, but it got better with time and exposure. I recalled how she talked to me, encouraged me and fed me. How through the time we spent together, I learned something more real about her than details or facts.
I learned of her humanity.
I did not labor the subject, and sat down quickly.
The woman who was very nearly my wife held my hand.
Some appreciated my remembrances of the departed and thanked me for sharing repeatedly. I'm thinking - in some way, on some level - maybe I spoke for them.
Maybe.

As the service ended, I went to the device that contained the earthly remains of the departed and touched it. I realized that though I'm not blood, I may just be family.


There. I said it.