Then, before I could force another word out, she closed the door.
Not slammed.
Just closed—slow, deliberate—like she was ending a conversation she’d been tired of for a long time.
I stood there staring at the door, my hand still raised from knocking, like my body hadn’t caught up to what my life had just become.
A year.
My father had been dead for a year.
And I was finding out on a porch like a stranger.
I didn’t remember walking away.
I only remember the street tilting slightly, like the whole neighborhood had shifted on its foundation. I walked until my legs hurt, until my mind stopped trying to make the sentence “your father was buried a year ago” sound less final.
Eventually, I ended up at the only place that made sense.
The cemetery.
THE GRAVE THAT WASN’T THERE
The cemetery sat behind a row of tall pines, the kind that always look serious, like they were planted by people who believed in permanence. A wrought-iron gate creaked when I pushed it open.
I didn’t have flowers.
I didn’t have a plan.
I just needed a marker. A stone. Proof.
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