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I returned to my childhood home a few days after my dad’s death, only to find the locks changed and a cruel message taped to the door. I was crushed by how far my stepmother would go to get what she wanted. But my father had a plan of his own… one that made her wish she’d never touched that lock.
I stood in the cemetery, watching as they lowered my father’s casket into the ground. The finality of it sank right through me and took something with it. My dad, Mark, was my rock and my everything since Mom died. He was gone, just like that. A stroke at 58. No warning. No goodbye.
“We should get back to the house,” my stepmom, Carla, said, her voice flat as she adjusted her designer sunglasses. Not a tear had stained her perfectly applied makeup. “People will be arriving soon.”
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