During her son’s funeral, the mother grabbed an axe and struck the coffin lid several times: when the lid broke, people saw something horrifying — I’m not going to the funeral, that’s not my son.
— Mom, what are you saying? It’s your son’s, my husband’s, funeral—how can you not go?
— You don’t understand, my son is not in this coffin, they’re lying, they’re hiding something.
— Mom, but you saw the documents. They explained that his face became unrecognizable due to the accident, but the DNA test confirmed it was him.
— That’s not my son, I feel it.
— You’re just grieving, you don’t want to believe he’s no longer with us.
— My son is alive. Stop talking about him in the past tense.
Despite all the persuasion, the mother remained firm. After a few hours, however, she agreed to attend the funeral. She refused to wear black and put on a blue coat. In her hands was a thick black bag that she didn’t let go of for a moment. The daughter-in-law said nothing more—the important thing was that the mother-in-law agreed to come.
The weather that day was gloomy, clouds hung low over the cemetery. When the ceremony began and they started nailing the coffin lid, the mother suddenly stepped forward. Her face was pale. She placed the bag on the ground, grabbed the axe, and before anyone could react, raised it and struck the coffin lid with full force.
There was a crack, the boards flew apart. One strike, a second—and the coffin split almost in half.
…A moment of silence hung. People froze, some covered their mouths with their hands, others instinctively stepped back. The priest lowered his eyes, as if hoping to disappear. The attendees were frozen, then a scream rang out:
— There… it’s empty!
