When my father died, grief didn’t announce itself with drama. It slipped in quietly, settling into ordinary moments—reaching for my phone to text him, passing his favorite chair, noticing the silence linger a little too long. Loss didn’t shout. It stayed.
The will reading was cold and brief. My half-sister sat across from me, composed, ready to claim the house, savings, and investments—the things everyone could see and measure. Then the attorney looked up and read my name.
I inherited one thing.
My father’s old cactus.
It was an awkward, dull plant, sitting by his living room window for decades. My half-sister laughed, told me at forty-two I should be fine with “something small,” and left it at that. I said nothing, cradled the cracked pot, and carried it home.
That night, I stared at it. It wasn’t fancy. Not valuable. But it was deliberate. My father wasn’t a man of speeches or grand gestures. He communicated in quiet ways, in routines, in objects. That cactus? It was resilience personified. It survived neglect, thrived on patience, and kept growing despite everything. He had lived by it.
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