Of course it was everything. That was just like him.
My father had spent his entire life being the kind of man people tolerated but never really liked. He was quiet to the point of being distant, rarely smiled, and never explained himself. Growing up, I remember asking him once why we never went on vacations like other families.
“We don’t waste money,” he had said flatly.
That was always his answer.
When he died, there were no dramatic final words, no heartfelt confessions—just a short hospital stay and a silence that felt oddly familiar. Standing in the funeral home days later, I expected a small gathering. Maybe a few neighbors, a couple of distant relatives.
Instead, the room kept filling.
“Who are all these people?” I muttered under my breath.
