The funeral was quiet, suffocating, a blur of faces and whispered condolences. I counted forty-three people—it was easier than facing the empty space where my father’s presence used to be. My stepmother, Carolina, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, looking every bit the perfect widow.
He was only fifty-eight. A sudden heart attack, the doctors said. I was twenty-four—too young to lose the man who had taught me everything that mattered.
The next day, I went to his house, expecting to sort through memories, to touch the life we’d shared. Instead, I found my childhood scattered across the porch: old clothes, photos, my baseball glove. Carolina stood in the doorway, arms crossed, diamonds flashing.
“You can’t stay here,” she said. “This house belongs to family now.”
“I’m his son,” I replied.
She smirked. “You’re Linda’s son. I took care of him. You were barely around.”
The door shut. Just like that, I was left with nothing—no car, no storage, no plan, only humiliation.
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