Because he was my dad in every way that counted.
After the funeral, the house filled with polite condolences and the clatter of dishes. Someone laughed too loudly in the kitchen. A fork scraped sharply across porcelain.
I stood in the hallway holding a glass of lemonade I hadn’t tasted. The house still carried his scent—wood polish, aftershave, and faint lavender soap he always insisted wasn’t his.
Aunt Sammie slipped up beside me.
“You don’t have to stay here by yourself,” she said gently. “Come stay with me.”
“This is my home,” I replied.
Her smile stayed fixed. “We’ll talk later.”
Then I heard my name.
“Clover?”
I turned.
