My father d.ied suddenly at just forty-seven. At least, that’s what everyone told me. One moment he was laughing in the kitchen, and the next, I was standing at his funeral, numb and confused.
But what broke me most wasn’t his death — it was what happened after.
My stepmom of fourteen years didn’t shed a single tear. At least, not that I ever saw.
The very next morning, she packed up her belongings, took her son, and walked out of our home without looking back. No explanations.
No goodbye.
Nothing. I stood in the doorway, watching her leave, and a cold bitterness settled into my chest. I hated her for that moment.
I hated her for abandoning me when I needed her most.
For thirteen years, I held on to that anger like a shield. Then one afternoon, a message arrived that she had passed away.
I felt… nothing. Or at least I thought I did.
What happened next changed everything…
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