A woman in a red dress appeared at my father’s funeral and whispered four words that tore open a truth buried for
decades. What I discovered next turned my entire life upside down. And I had to choose between blood and love.
The day we gathered to say goodbye to my father, the world felt unnaturally still. I stood beside his open grave, watching the casket that seemed too small to hold a man who’d filled every room he ever entered. My dad, Robert, was my anchor.
The kind of man who mowed elderly neighbors’ lawns without being asked. Who slipped cash to homeless veterans. Who never raised his voice, even when I deserved it.
When he died suddenly from an aneurysm last Tuesday, my world shattered. I held my mother as she trembled against me. The priest was saying something about eternal rest.
About a life well lived. About how Robert was a good man. It felt insufficient.