I returned to my childhood home a few days after my dad’s death, only to find the locks changed and a cruel message taped to the door. I was crushed by how far my stepmother would go to get what she wanted. But my father had a plan of his own… one that made her wish she’d never touched that lock.
I stood in the cemetery, watching as they lowered my father’s casket into the ground. The finality of it sank right through me and took something with it. My dad, Mark, was my rock and my everything since Mom died. He was gone, just like that. A stroke at 58. No warning. No goodbye.
“We should get back to the house,” my stepmom, Carla, said, her voice flat as she adjusted her designer sunglasses. Not a tear had stained her perfectly applied makeup. “People will be arriving soon.”
I nodded numbly. At 25, I thought I was an adult. Thought I was ready for anything. But I wasn’t ready for this. Back at my childhood home, I wandered from room to room while Carla managed the stream of visitors.
Every corner held memories — Dad teaching me to ride a bike when I was seven. The Christmas when he bought me a telescope. The kitchen table where we solved math problems and shared ice cream after Mom died.