The Fortress at the Graveside

January 12, 2026 by ucef

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All of that stood with me at my father’s funeral, packed tightly behind my ribs as Vanessa’s voice dripped poison into the air.

She thought she was cutting into old wounds.

She didn’t realize those wounds had scarred over into armor.

As the service ended and people began drifting toward the house, I followed, silent, composed, already aware that this day was not finished with us yet.

Not even close.

The house felt wrong the moment I stepped inside.

My father’s old colonial had always carried a sense of quiet order. Books lined the shelves he’d built himself. Family photos sat carefully dusted on the mantel. Even after his illness, the place had retained a calm dignity, like a man who never complained but endured.

Now, it felt invaded.

Vanessa had transformed the living room into something unrecognizable. Wine glasses clinked. Laughter floated too loudly. Someone had turned on soft music, as if grief were an inconvenience that needed background noise to smooth it over.