When I was released from prison, I didn’t pause to reflect or catch my breath.
I boarded the first bus I could find and sprinted the final blocks to my father’s house—the place that had lived in my mind every night of my sentence.
The porch railing was the same, but the front door was a different color, and cars I didn’t recognize filled the driveway. Still, I knocked, my hands unsteady.
My stepmother, Linda, answered. Her face showed no warmth.
She glanced past me, as if expecting trouble, then said flatly, “Your father d:ied a year ago. We live here now.” She offered no sympathy, no invitation inside. Before I could even say his name, she shut the door.
Confused and shaken, I wandered for hours until I reached the cemetery where I believed my father was bu:ried. I needed confirmation—somewhere to stand, somewhere to grieve.
Before I could enter, an elderly groundskeeper stopped me. His uniform was worn, his gaze intent. “Don’t look for it,” he said softly. “He isn’t here. He asked me to give you this.”
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