When Michael became sick last year, I moved back home immediately. I cooked for him, drove him to every appointment, and stayed by his side when the pain left him unable to speak.
Not out of duty.
But because, in every way that mattered, he was my father.
After the funeral, the house filled with hushed voices and the faint clatter of dishes. Someone laughed too loudly in the kitchen, and the sharp scrape of a fork against a plate made heads turn.
I stood near the hallway table, holding a glass of lemonade I hadn’t even touched. The furniture still carried his scent—wood polish, aftershave, and that subtle hint of lavender soap he always insisted wasn’t his.continue reading …
