“I know most of you here don’t know who I am. But I knew Margaret better than anyone here.”

What? Who was this guy? I thought to myself. And what did he think he was doing? He waltzed up to the podium of my grandmother’s funeral, all fancy in his purple suit, and started to talk. He knew her better than anyone? Better than her friends? Her family? Her husband?

I looked around at the rest of the family. They were as confused and perplexed as I was. Who was this blowhard is trying to make a mockery of her life celebration? I have to say something.

I rose to my feet.

“Annie-May, I know that you want to stop me, but hear me out. Please.”

He knows my name. And not my actual name, my nickname. The one that Mama gave me when I was just a kid. The one that only she used.

“I know this is quite irregular, but I have much to share about Margaret, about who this woman you loved so dearly really was. But I’ll say this first. Who am I? I am the mystery man from all of her memorable stories. I am the strange figure that appears in your family photos. I am the Man Upstairs.”