The heavy scent of floor wax and cheap perfume usually signaled a night of celebration, but for me, it felt like a suffocating reminder of everything I had lost. It had been exactly three months since Keith’s funeral. Three months since the rhythmic thud of his combat boots on the hardwood floor vanished, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight. I still found myself making two cups of coffee in the morning, the steam from the second mug rising like a ghost in the kitchen before I realized my mistake and poured it down the drain.
Grief is a strange architect; it rebuilds your life into a maze of triggers. A specific song on the radio, the sight of a double-knotted shoelace, or the upcoming elementary school father-daughter dance could bring the whole structure crashing down.
Katie stood before the closet mirror, her small frame swallowed by the pale pink “twirl dress” Keith had picked out for her a year ago. She had been saving it for this very night. Over her heart, she had pinned a “Daddy’s Girl” badge, the gold plastic glinting under the bedroom light.
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