THE SILENCE OF A FATHER….

My stepmother.

Her hair was styled like she’d just come back from a salon. Her blouse looked crisp. And her eyes—those sharp, measured eyes—scanned me from head to toe like I was a problem arriving on schedule.

For one second, I thought she might flinch.

Or soften.

Or at least look surprised.

Instead, her expression stayed flat.

“You’re out,” she said, like she’d just read it on the weather report.

“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded strange, too loud in the quiet of that porch.

Linda’s mouth tightened, almost like she was annoyed I’d asked.

Then she said, calmly and coldly, “Your father was buried a year ago.”

The words didn’t land right.

Buried. A year ago.