“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded unfamiliar—rough, too loud.
Her lips tightened.
Then she said it.
“Your father died last year.”
The words hovered, unreal.
Buried.
A year ago.
My mind refused to accept it. I waited for clarification. For cruelty disguised as a joke.
But she didn’t blink.
“We live here now,” she added. “You should leave.”
The hallway behind her was unrecognizable. New furniture. New pictures. No sign of my father’s boots. No jacket. No smell of sawdust or coffee.
It was as if he had been erased.
And she held the eraser.
“I need to see him,” I said, desperation clawing at my chest. “His room—”
“There’s nothing left,” she replied, closing the door. Not slamming it. Just closing it. Slowly. Final.
The deadbolt clicked.
I stood there, stunned.
A year.
I learned my father was gone standing on his porch like a stranger.
I don’t remember leaving. Only walking. Until my legs burned. Until the sentence stopped echoing.
Eventually, I reached the only place that made sense.
The cemetery.
