Michael met my mom, Carina, when I was two. They got married in a quiet and intimate ceremony. I don’t remember the wedding or even life before him.
My earliest memory is sitting on his shoulders at the county fair, one sticky hand gripping a balloon, the other tangled in his hair.
My mom died when I was four — that’s a sentence I’ve lived with my whole life.
“You just left me… alone.”
When Michael got sick last year, I moved back into the house without hesitation. I made his food, I drove him to appointments, and I sat beside his bed when the pain turned him quiet.
I didn’t do any of it out of obligation.
I did it because he was my father in every way that mattered.
After the funeral, the house buzzed with polite murmurs and the soft clink of cutlery. Someone laughed too loudly near the kitchen, and a fork scraped a plate hard enough to turn heads.
I did it because he was my father.
I stood near the hallway table, nursing a glass of lemonade I hadn’t touched. The furniture still smelled like him — wood polish, aftershave, and the faint trace of that lavender soap he always claimed wasn’t his.
Aunt Sammie appeared at my side like she belonged there. She hugged me tight.
“You don’t have to stay here alone,” she murmured. “You can come home with me for a while.”
“This is my home.”
Her smile didn’t change. “We’ll talk later then, sweetie.”
Aunt Sammie appeared at my side.
My name came from behind me.
“Clover?”
I turned.
An older man stood there — maybe late 60s. He was clean-shaven but deeply creased. His tie was too tight, like someone else had knotted it for him. He held his cup in both hands, like it might slip.
“I’m sorry…” I said slowly. “Did you know my dad from work?”
An older man stood there — maybe late 60s.
He nodded once. “I’ve known him for a long time, honey. I’m Frank.”
I searched his face, but nothing sparked.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he said, his voice low and rough.
That made me pause.
“I’ve known him for a long time, honey.”
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