My Father Married My Aunt After My Mom Died — Then at the Wedding, My Brother Said, “Dad Isn’t Who He Pretends to Be”

Even while dying, she never stopped being a parent.

After we buried her, the house still smelled of antiseptic and her lavender lotion.

People kept repeating the same comforting phrases.

“She’s not suffering anymore.”
“She was so strong.”
“Time will help. You’ll be okay.”

Time didn’t help. It only made the silence heavier.

Three months after the funeral, my father asked Robert and me to stop by.

“Just to talk,” he said over the phone, his voice strangely careful.

When we walked into the living room, nothing had changed. Mom’s coat still hung by the door. Her slippers were tucked under the couch. The funeral flowers were gone, but the emptiness they left felt permanent.

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