“Your father was buried a year ago.”
The words didn’t land right. They hovered in the air, abstract and nonsensical.
Buried. A year ago.
My mind tried to reject it, to push it away like a bad dream. I waited for the punchline. The correction. The cruel joke.
But Linda didn’t blink.
“We live here now,” she added, gesturing vaguely behind her. “So… you should go.”
My throat went dry, as if I’d swallowed a handful of dust.
“I—” I tried again, my voice cracking. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Linda’s lips curved slightly. It wasn’t a smile—it was satisfaction.
“You were in prison, Eli,” she said. “What were we supposed to do? Send you a sympathy card?”
Behind her, the hallway looked alien. Different pictures on the walls—landscapes instead of family photos. Different furniture visible beyond the entryway. None of my father’s things. No hunting coat hung by the door. No scuffed work boots. No familiar smell of cedar and coffee and the lemon cleaner he used on weekends.
It was like my father had been erased.
