They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow a clock. Thirteen years after my father passed away, I still felt him in everything—the hiss of the kettle, a familiar song in a store, the instinct to call him when life got heavy. He wasn’t just my dad. He was the one who stayed when everyone else left. My mother walked out the day I was born. He stayed for every day after.
After the funeral, I locked the door to our old house and couldn’t bring myself to open it again. The silence inside felt too loud, too final. I told myself I’d go back one day for a few old papers or keepsakes, but deep down, I knew I was afraid.
Then one crisp September morning, something changed. Maybe I was tired of carrying my grief like a secret. I drove to the house, parked under the oak tree my dad had planted the day I was born, and sat there staring at the front steps. That tree was taller than the roof now. I remembered him lifting me up when I was little, letting me touch the leaves. “Strong roots, kiddo,” he’d said. “Reach high, but don’t forget where you stand.”
I stood at the front door with the copper key trembling in my hand. “You can do this,” I whispered, even though I didn’t believe it. The door creaked open, and for a second, I thought I heard his voice: “Welcome home, kiddo.”
Inside, everything was still. The air smelled faintly of polish and coffee—the way it always had when he was alive. I told myself I was only there to grab a few documents, but grief has its own plans. My steps led me to the attic.
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