The bus dropped me three blocks from the house I once called home. The night air was thick with the scent of early spring, but inside me, everything felt cold and unfamiliar.
I ran the last stretch, heart hammering, lungs burning, imagining my father sitting in his worn armchair, waiting for me like he always did in my mind.
The porch light was on, but the house wasn’t the same. Fresh paint gleamed on the railing, new cars filled the driveway, and the welcome mat read HOME SWEET HOME—a phrase that felt like a stranger’s greeting.
I knocked hard, more like a demand than a request.
The door opened slowly. Linda stood there—my stepmother—her eyes sharp and unreadable.
“You’re out,” she said flatly.
“Where’s my dad?” I asked, my voice too loud in the quiet evening.
Her lips tightened. “Your father was buried a year ago.”
The words hit me like a blow. Buried. A year ago. I blinked, waiting for her to correct herself. But she didn’t.
“We live here now,” she added, stepping aside just enough to let me know I shouldn’t stay.
I opened my mouth to ask more, but the door closed before I could speak again. Just closed—calm, deliberate.
I stood there, hand still raised from knocking, feeling the weight of a silence heavier than any sentence.
That was the night I learned he was gone, and nothing after it was the same.
