In the days following Pope Francis’ death, one moment captured the heartbreak of millions around the world: a lone nun, clutching a tissue, stepping quietly past Vatican protocol to grieve by his coffin. That woman was Sister Geneviève Jeanningros, and now she’s shared the story behind that powerful scene.

Sister Geneviève wasn’t just another mourner. She had known Francis personally, long before he became pope. Their friendship began in 2005 when she traveled to Buenos Aires to arrange the reburial of her aunt, Leonie Duquet — a fellow nun who had disappeared during Argentina’s dark years of dictatorship. Then-Archbishop Jorge Mario Bergoglio, who would one day be known as Pope Francis, supported her during that painful time. From that shared moment of loss and hope, a bond formed that would last nearly two decades.

When Francis ascended to the papacy in 2013, Sister Geneviève remained close to him. Their connection was built not only on faith but on a shared commitment to inclusion. A passionate advocate for the LGBTQ+ community, Geneviève often led groups to meet with the Pope, and Francis welcomed them with open arms — a rare and deeply human gesture that spoke volumes about the man he was behind the title. Just last summer, despite his declining health, Francis traveled to Ostia to visit her — a testament to the deep affection they shared.

So when the world lined up at St. Peter’s Basilica to say goodbye, it was unthinkable to Sister Geneviève that she wouldn’t be allowed a moment to mourn him properly. Vatican protocol restricted close access to the casket to male clergy only. But Geneviève, heartbroken and determined, stepped forward anyway. Wiping away tears, she stood by the simple coffin, the world watching — and no one dared to stop her.

In an emotional interview at the Vatican just days later, Geneviève described Francis in simple, loving terms: “a father, a friend, and a brother.” She revealed she hadn’t just come that one day — she returned every day to pray and grieve. “Many people told me: when you go to see the Pope, take us with you,” she said softly. “I cried for them too.”

Among the memories she treasures most was her last visit with Francis, where she introduced him to Laura Esquibel, a transgender woman from Paraguay. Laura, reflecting on that meeting, said, “I was the first trans woman to shake his hand. I’ve seen him seven times; we had lunch together. I liked him a lot.”

Since the funeral, Geneviève has chosen to step back from the spotlight. Overwhelmed by grief, she gently declined further interviews. “No, I can’t. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I’m sorry,” she told reporters. “I can’t because it’s too much, you know? I liked him a lot, that’s it.”

More than 250,000 mourners passed by Francis’ coffin before his funeral, each carrying their own memories, their own prayers. St. Peter’s Square overflowed with people from around the world. Among the sea of leaders and dignitaries were figures like President Donald Trump, UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer, Prince William, and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy — though not all visitors honored the solemnity of the occasion as gracefully.

Still, it was the quiet, unplanned moments — a grieving nun, a shared tear, an unspoken prayer — that truly defined the farewell to a pope who spent his life breaking barriers and reaching out to the forgotten. In the end, Sister Geneviève’s final tribute was a mirror to the legacy Pope Francis leaves behind: deeply human, quietly defiant, and full of love.