The day of Dad’s funeral was overcast, mirroring the somber mood that hung over the gathering. I stood at the cemetery, feeling a blend of sadness and relief. Sadness for the loss of the man who, despite his shortcomings, had been my father. Relief, because I had finally come to terms with my past and was ready to move forward.
As soon as the last handful of earth was thrown onto the grave, the relatives I barely recognized began their whispers and side glances. I could almost feel the vultures circling. Still, I held my peace, knowing there were more pressing matters at hand.
When I returned to the house, it was clear things had escalated. My belongings were strewn across the lawn like discarded memories. The door was locked, and my stepmother stood on the porch, flanked by my half-sister, Emma, both of them with smug expressions.
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