And Linda was standing in the doorway, holding the eraser.
“I need to see him,” I said, desperation clawing at my chest. “I need to go to his room.”
“There’s nothing to see,” she replied, stepping back to close the door. “It’s over.”
Then, before I could force another word out, she shut it.
Not slammed.
Just closed—slow, deliberate—like she was ending a conversation she’d been tired of for a long time. The click of the deadbolt sliding into place was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
I stood there staring at the charcoal gray wood, my hand still raised, my body unable to process the new reality.
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.
