When Mimi stands at the door, she knows the news is not good. Her body already knows the rules. "Mrs. Braderton? Naomi?" She signals the police officers to come inside. The words do not come out of her mouth. It is a man and a woman. They shake nonexistent dust from their sleeves. They look like suicide bombers, strapped with all those protective gear and badges, belts and clips, the walkie-talkie each carries, and the countless pockets. But what will cause the explosion is the terrible news, not some device. They take up so much space in her hallway that she has to squeeze past them and lead them down the corridor to the kitchen, where she can ask the question she thinks she already knows the answer to. Is he dead? She nudges the mail on the floor with her foot, as if to tidy up the letters. She sees his name on an envelope. She pulls down her sweater to straighten up a bit and wipes imaginary mascara marks under her eyes, following the rules of a vague decorum required in such cases, just before everything collapses.

It is impossible to prepare someone for the death of a loved one. But there are rules for such moments, and Mimi has seen them put into practice before. She would tell you: Don’t procrastinate. The person will have already realized something is wrong from your behavior, from the very fact that you are there or have called. We send countless signals to others without knowing it. Their body will already be preparing for an emergency situation. Use simple and neutral language. Start by saying that the person has died. This excludes any doubt. Do not use metaphors like "left us" or "went somewhere better." "Lost" is extremely unhelpful – just imagine it alone. The truth is necessary. You may need to say it again. And do not make promises you cannot keep.