They say grief comes in waves. But nothing prepared me for the tidal wave that hit when I found out my father’s will had left me out completely. It felt like a betrayal… until a dusty envelope buried in his old workshop revealed the truth he knew I’d need to uncover.
My dad and I shared the kind of bond that made other people envious. After Mom died from breast cancer when I was fourteen, we became each other’s whole world.
We figured out how to navigate grief together, trading cooking disasters for takeout, learning to do laundry without turning everything pink, and staying up late watching old westerns that Mom would have hated.
“Just you and me against the world, Lizzie,” he’d say, ruffling my hair as we’d sit on the porch swing during summer thunderstorms.
Dad never missed a single parent-teacher conference, soccer game, or dance recital. He even learned to French braid my hair by watching YouTube tutorials.
When I left for college, I worried about him being alone.
So, during our weekly Sunday night calls, I’d ask if he was dating. He’d just laugh it off.
“No one could compare to your mom,” he’d say. “Besides, I’ve got my woodworking to keep me company.”
I believed him because I knew how important his workshop was to him. I’d spent countless hours watching him work there. He taught me the difference between oak and maple and how to sand against the grain.
I was sure his workshop was keeping him busy and happy.
However, things changed during my senior year when he called with “news.” His voice sounded totally different that day.
“I’ve met someone, Lizzie,” he said. “Her name is Sandra.”
Three months later, they were married at the courthouse.
I met her exactly once before the ceremony. She was twenty years younger than Dad’s 62, with blonde highlights and designer clothes that seemed out of place in our modest home.
I tried to be happy for him. I really did. But every time I visited, something felt off.
Sandra was polite but distant, overly interested in Dad’s finances, and constantly referred to me as “his daughter” instead of using my name.
When I asked about his woodworking, she’d wrinkle her nose and mention the “mess” and “dust” it created.
Still, I smiled through awkward holiday dinners and sent birthday cards with cheerful messages. Dad seemed content, if not as boisterous as before, and that’s what mattered.
Then came the call that shattered everything. Dad had pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Maybe six months.
I flew home immediately and found him already diminished. He looked thinner and paler.
At that point, it was Sandra who was handling most of the logistics, including doctors, hospice, and paperwork.