The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight as I ran my fingers across Dad’s framed photo. His smile looked the same as always — steady, comforting, proud. A year had passed since we buried him, but the ache still pulsed like it happened yesterday.
“Dad,” I whispered, my voice cracking, “I miss you so much.”
Mom walked in just then, her expression cold as always since the will reading. Half pity, half resentment.
“Katie, stop moping around. He’s gone, and crying won’t bring him back.”
Her words cut like glass. The memory of the lawyer reading the will still burned in me — Dad had left me the house, the land, 90 percent of everything. Mom and my brother Tyler had each gotten only a token sum. Dad’s choice was deliberate, his way of protecting me. But they never forgave me for it.
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