For six long years, I carried the weight of my father’s passing, believing that time would eventually help me heal. My grief became a constant companion, but I thought that visiting his grave might bring some closure—a way to finally make peace with the past. However, what I discovered at the cemetery that day led me to an unexpected truth about my mother, one that changed everything.
It had been two years since we lost Dad—two years, four days, and what felt like a lifetime of sorrow. His diagnosis had come as a shock: Stage IV lung cancer. I remember the moment we received the news as if time itself had frozen. The doctors did all they could, but the battle was already an uphill one. Dad fought bravely, but in the end, we had to say goodbye.
I got the call while at home with my husband, Andrew. My mother’s voice, usually steady and reassuring, wavered as she delivered the heartbreaking news.
“Penny… he’s gone.”
That moment remains a blur—a whirlwind of tears, hurried packing, and the long drive to my childhood home. In my heart, I half-expected Dad to greet me at the door, his familiar smile waiting for me. But reality set in the moment I arrived.
The funeral passed by in a haze. I remember standing at the gravesite, tears streaming down my face as his casket was lowered into the ground. It felt like a part of me was buried with him that day.
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