I lost my stepdad, Michael, five days ago.
« You were everything to him, Clover, » someone whispered, clutching my hand as if I might float away.
I nodded. I said thank you over and over — and I meant it, of course. But none of it sank in.
I stood near the urn, next to the photo of Michael squinting in the sun, grease smudged on his cheek.
That picture had sat on his nightstand for years, and now it felt like a placeholder, like a stand-in for the man who taught me how to change a tire and sign my name with pride.
« You were everything to him, Clover. »
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
