“You’re home,” he said softly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
For the first time since Ethan died, I felt like I could breathe again.
Veronica greeted me politely, but her smile was tight — the kind people give when they’re hiding their irritation.
I tried to make myself invisible in that house. I stayed mostly in the guest room, resting like the doctor ordered. I cleaned up after myself. I thanked her for every meal. I apologized for every inconvenience.
But I could feel it.
Every time she looked at me.
That quiet, simmering resentment.
My dad, though, treated me like I was still his little girl. He checked on me constantly. Some evenings he sat beside my bed telling stories about when I was a baby. Other times he showed up with small surprises — herbal tea, extra pillows for my back, even a stuffed toy he said the twins might like someday.
For a little while, I believed everything might work out.
Then my dad got sick.
It started with fatigue. A cough that wouldn’t go away. Within days we were sitting in a hospital office hearing words no family ever wants to hear.
Cancer.
And it was aggressive.
The disease moved so quickly that I barely had time to process what was happening. One day he was sitting beside me reading the newspaper. The next, I was standing beside a hospital bed watching machines go silent.
My dad died before I was ready to say goodbye.
Grief came crashing down on me again, heavier than before.
