As the weeks passed, Dad’s health deteriorated rapidly. I visited occasionally, quietly observing the family dynamics that hadn’t changed since my departure. Emma was still the center of their universe, and I was the perpetual outsider. Despite everything, I felt a twinge of pity for them, blissfully unaware of the change that had taken place.
The call came one chilly autumn morning: Dad had passed away. Despite our complicated history, his death left a void. I attended the funeral, standing to the side as they mourned. Mom barely acknowledged me, and Emma, now a young woman, cast a dismissive glance my way. Their coldness was almost a comfort—predictable and constant.
After the ceremony, I stood outside the family home. The home that legally, was mine. I intended to let them stay, at least for a while, until they found their footing. But as I approached, the door slammed shut. From the window, I spotted my belongings strewn across the lawn like discarded memories. “This house is ours now,” they declared, faces twisted with anger and grief. “Leave.”
