They say time heals, but grief doesn’t keep time. Thirteen years after my dad passed, I still found him in the smallest things—the hiss of the kettle, the afternoon light, the urge to call a number that would never pick up. My mom left when I was born. He stayed through everything after.
I hadn’t returned to his house since the funeral. The silence that day felt alive, waiting to sink its teeth into me. I locked the door, left the key behind, and told myself I’d only come back if I needed paperwork. Truth was, I just wasn’t ready.
But the day came. I stood on the porch, the copper key warm in my palm. “You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered. It felt like a lie. The house wasn’t a home—it was a heartbeat that had stopped mid-song.
The oak tree beside the steps rustled in the breeze. He planted it the day I was born. “Strong roots, kiddo,” he used to say. “Reach for the sky, but hold the ground.” I pressed my forehead to the door. “I don’t know how to do this without you,” I whispered, then turned the key.
For a fleeting second, I thought I heard him—“Welcome home, kiddo.” Reflex made me answer, “Dad?” The echo came back empty.
I told myself I was there for a file, nothing more. But grief has a way of rewriting plans. I opened the attic hatch, and the dust rose like it had been waiting.
Continue reading on next page…