Said Story

The funeral flowers had only just begun to fade when the calls started. I was in my kitchen on a Thursday morning, two weeks after we buried Helen, watching the steam curl from a mug I hadn’t touched. It was a Father’s Day gift from my granddaughter, Emily, years ago, but now it felt heavy, foreign, like it belonged to a man I no longer was.

Everything felt foreign.

“Dad, we need to talk about the house.” My son Mark’s voice on the phone carried the same restrained impatience he’d had as a teenager asking for money. Only now, at 38, he wasn’t asking.

“Good morning to you, too, Mark.”

“Don’t start with me,” he said. “Laura and I have been talking.

This place is too big for you alone.