When Michael got sick last year, I moved back home without hesitation. I cooked his meals, drove him to appointments, and sat beside his bed when pain silenced him. None of it was obligation—it was love. He was my father in every way that mattered.
After the funeral, the house buzzed with polite murmurs and clinking cutlery. Someone laughed too loudly in the kitchen. A fork scraped a plate hard enough to turn heads.
I stood near the hallway table, nursing a glass of untouched lemonade. The furniture still smelled like him—wood polish, aftershave, and that lavender soap he always insisted wasn’t his.
Aunt Sammie appeared at my side, hugging me tightly.
“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.”
Then another voice called my name.
“Clover?”
I turned.
An older man stood there—late sixties, clean-shaven, deeply creased. His tie was too tight, as if someone else had knotted it. He held his cup in both hands, like it might slip.
“I’m sorry…” I said slowly. “Did you know my dad from work?”
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, voice low and rough.
That made me pause. “What do you mean?”
