My dad passed away at forty-eight.
The house was still filled with people that afternoon—neighbors, relatives, coworkers whispering quietly in the living room. Everything felt unreal, like the world had slowed down while I stood in the middle of it, unable to breathe.
I was seventeen, sitting on the edge of the couch, holding the sleeves of Dad’s old jacket in my hands. It still smelled faintly like the motor oil he used in the garage and the cedar soap he loved.
I hadn’t stopped crying since the hospital.
Across the room, my stepsister Lily stood near the doorway, scrolling through her phone. She was twenty-five now. Dad had raised her since she was two years old, ever since he married her mom.
But she never called him Dad.
Not once.
When she noticed me crying again, she rolled her eyes and laughed under her breath.
“Stop crying,” she said casually.
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