When my dad died last spring, the world fell quiet in a way that hurt. He had been my steady—sweet pancakes, terrible jokes, pep talks ending with “You can do anything, sweetheart.” After Mom died when I was eight, it was just us until he married Carla, a woman whose cold perfume and colder smiles never warmed our home. When Dad’s heart failed, she didn’t shed a tear. At his funeral, when I nearly collapsed, she whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone. It happens.”
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