I nodded numbly. At 25, I thought I was an adult. Thought I was ready for anything. But I wasn’t ready for this. Back at my childhood home, I wandered from room to room while Carla managed the stream of visitors.
For illustrative purposes only
Every corner held memories — Dad teaching me to ride a bike when I was seven. The Christmas when he bought me a telescope. The kitchen table where we solved math problems and shared ice cream after Mom died.
“He wouldn’t want all this moping,” Carla said, suddenly beside me as I stood in Dad’s study, touching the spines of his books. “Life goes on, Olivia.”
I looked at her, all pearls, white designer dress, and not a single hair out of place. “It’s been three hours since we buried him.”
