My father had been dead for thirty-two days when my mother came home smiling.
But after a month of watching her move through our tiny apartment like a ghost in slippers, even that small smile felt like betrayal.
I was at the kitchen table with a stack of medical bills, my college withdrawal form, and Dad’s old silver watch beside my elbow.
My father had been dead for thirty-two days.
Cancer had taken him first, then it came back for everything else.
Our house, our savings, Mom’s wedding ring, and my future.
I’d dropped out of college two weeks earlier and picked up extra shifts at the diner. It still wasn’t enough. The bank didn’t care that Dad had been good. The hospital didn’t care that Mom had slept beside him until her back gave out.