After my parents split up, I stayed with my dad.

Not because I didn’t love my mom. I did. But she was moving out of state, and I didn’t want to leave my school, my friends, or the room I’d grown up in. Both of my parents understood.

When Dad married Sharon, I tried to make it work. She didn’t.

She barely tolerated me. Her smiles felt fake, and her tone always came with a sting.

Like when she’d say, “You left your plate in the sink, again,” but in that sugary-sweet voice that screamed, You’re not really wanted here.

Her adult kids, Mark and Lisa, were just as bad. They’d breeze in like they owned the place, eating Dad’s food, turning up the TV, and rolling their eyes at me like I was some stray dog he hadn’t kicked out yet.

But Dad had my back.

Always.

He never let them push me around. If Sharon got snippy, he’d deflect. If Mark, my stepbrother, started making snide remarks, Dad would shut it down fast. He was the buffer between me and all of them. And that made it bearable. That made it home.

Then he died.

Just like that. A heart attack on a random Tuesday. I was still in shock when we had the funeral. It felt like I was floating through it, totally zoned out.

Everyone said the usual stuff: He was a good man.He loved you so much.He’s in a better place now. I wanted to scream at them all.

After the service, I didn’t want to go back to the house. There were just too many memories. Too much tension. So I stayed the night at my best friend Maddy’s place, just a few blocks away.

Her family understood that I just needed some time to clear my head.

The next morning, I walked home.

I should’ve known something was off. The driveway was empty, but the porch… was packed.

With all my stuff. My clothes, books, the picture of me and Dad fishing when I was eight, and much more were tossed into cardboard boxes like trash.