My dad died when he was forty-eight. That afternoon, our house was full of people—neighbors, relatives, and coworkers quietly talking in the living room. Everything felt strange, like time had slowed down. I stood there feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
I was seventeen, sitting on the couch and holding Dad’s old jacket. It still smelled like motor oil from his garage and the cedar soap he liked. I hadn’t stopped crying since we left the hospital.
Across the room, my stepsister Lily stood near the door scrolling on her phone. She was twenty-five. Dad had raised her since she was two years old after he married her mom.
But she never called him “Dad.” Not even once.
When she saw me crying again, she rolled her eyes and laughed quietly.
“Stop crying,” she said.
“You’re seventeen. That’s pathetic.”
Her words hurt more than anything else that day. I just stared at her in shock.
This was the man who made her school lunches, drove her to soccer practice, and helped her study for exams late at night.
But she looked completely bored.
A few days later, the lawyer read Dad’s will.
Leave a Comment