Daryl’s face tightened, not with shame but irritation. “Your mother isn’t here.”
The words landed harder than a shove.
Hannah Mercer had been gone seven months. Cancer, fast and ugly. She had always smelled like cinnamon gum and dish soap and wood smoke. The house still carried traces of her if Eli woke up early enough and kept the lights off. But Daryl had already started painting the kitchen, replacing curtains, drinking through the evenings like he was sanding her out of the walls.
At first it had been small things. Eli’s hockey gear disappeared from the mudroom. Then his mother’s boxes got moved to the garage. Then Daryl started talking about money like it was a weather system only he understood.
Then, one Thursday evening after Eli got home from school, Daryl had handed him an envelope and said, “Your granddad left you something.”
