How to attend a wake, a shiva, or a funeral you did not know the deceased at

Your college roommate's father died. You met him once, at graduation, for maybe ninety seconds. The service is Thursday at 2 p.m. and you are already writing and deleting the same text: do you want me to come?

Go. That is the whole answer to the first question. You are not there for the man in the casket. You are there for your friend, who will remember for the rest of her life who was in the room. What follows is how to do it without freezing, without fumbling, and without making her comfort you.

The three sentences

Most of the panic about funerals is the panic of not knowing what to say. So decide before you get in the car. You need three sentences, and only three. One for the receiving line or the front door. One for your friend. One for anyone who asks who you are.

For the receiving line — the parent, the widow, the sibling standing near the entrance whom you have never met — say this:

"I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm Diane, a friend of Sarah's from college."

That is it. Do not add that you only met him once. Do not say he seemed like a wonderful man if you have no idea whether he was. Do not say "I can't imagine what you're going through," because that sentence puts the burden back on them to reassure you. "I'm so sorry for your loss" has survived four thousand years of human grief for a reason. Use it.

For your friend, when you find her, say some version of this:

"I'm here. I love you. You don't have to talk to me — I just wanted you to see my face."

Hug her if you hug. Hold her hand if you don't. Then step aside so the next person can reach her. You will get more time later, at the house or on the phone next week. The service is not where the real conversation happens.

For the stranger who turns to you at the reception and says and how did you know Robert? — say:

"I didn't, really. I'm here for his daughter Sarah. We've been friends since 2011."

Honest, warm, closed. They will nod and move on. Nobody at a funeral is auditing your credentials. They are grateful the room is full.

The dress, and the small rules that change by tradition

Wear dark clothes that cover your shoulders and knees. If you own one navy or black outfit you would wear to a job interview, wear that. Flat shoes if you might stand for an hour. This is not the day to try the new lipstick.

A Catholic or Protestant funeral in the U.S. usually runs about an hour in a church or funeral home, followed by a reception. You sit, you stand when others stand, you do not take communion if you are not of that faith — you stay in the pew and let people pass. You can bow your head during prayers you don't know. Nobody is watching your mouth.

A shiva is different, and worth knowing about specifically because well-meaning people get it wrong. Shiva is held at the home of the mourners, usually for seven days (though many families sit for three). You do not need an invitation. You do not ring the doorbell — the door is left unlocked or ajar so mourners are not required to play host. You bring food if you know the family well enough to know what they eat; otherwise bring nothing, or send a platter to arrive earlier. You do not say hello when you walk in. You wait for the mourner to speak to you first. If they don't, you sit nearby quietly. This sounds strange until you do it once, and then it makes complete sense: the grieving person is exempt from social duty. That is the entire point.

An Irish or Italian wake often has an open casket and lasts several hours across an evening. You go up to the casket, you stand for a moment, you cross yourself if that is your tradition or simply lower your head if it isn't, and then you find the family. You are allowed to feel weird about the body. Everyone does. Look at the flowers instead if you need to.

At any of these, silence your phone before you get out of the car. Not on vibrate. Off.

The exit

The hardest part for a person who did not know the deceased is knowing when to leave. You are afraid of leaving too early and looking like you didn't care. You are afraid of staying too late and being in the way. Here is the heuristic: stay for the service itself, plus twenty to forty minutes of the reception. Long enough to eat something, speak to your friend a second time, and be seen. Then go.

When you leave, find your friend. Do not slip out. Say:

"I'm going to head out. I'll text you tomorrow. I don't need anything back — just know I'm thinking about you."

That last clause is doing real work. It releases her from the obligation to respond to your check-in texts for the next two weeks. Grieving people are drowning in messages that require a reply. Send yours knowing none is expected.

Then actually text her. Tomorrow, and the Tuesday after, and three weeks from now when everyone else has gone quiet. That is where the friendship shows up. The funeral is the easy part — it has a start time and a dress code. The Tuesday six weeks later, when she is alone in her kitchen and the casseroles are gone, is the part that counts.

One more thing. Do not, on the drive home, tell yourself you did not belong there because you did not know him. You belonged there because you know her. That is the only ticket required.

Before Thursday, put the three sentences in a note on your phone and read them once in the parking lot. Do not post anything about the funeral on social media, not even a black square — this is not your loss to announce.