But who was left? My mom had died when I was a teen, and Ethan’s parents had relocated to Arizona. That left one person — my dad.

Dad’s house wasn’t only his anymore. He’d married Veronica, a younger woman with glossy blonde hair, immaculate nails, and the kind of beauty that belonged on a magazine cover. She looked like she fit in at upscale cocktail parties, not standing over a stove.

Still, I hoped it would work. I needed help, and Dad was my only option.

When I arrived, Dad wrapped me in his arms. His gray eyes looked tired but full of warmth.

“This is your home, sweetheart,” he said softly, cupping my face like I was still a little girl.

For the first time in weeks, I felt oxygen fill my lungs.

Veronica, though? Her smile was thin and forced — the kind someone gives when red wine spills on a white carpet. She murmured something about “timing” before drifting away, leaving a knot in my stomach.

I made myself as small as possible — stayed in the guest room, cleaned up meticulously, thanked her for every meal. But I could feel her gaze tracking me. She never raised her voice, yet the way she looked at me made it clear I wasn’t welcome.

Dad, on the other hand, cherished having me there. He’d sit beside my bed, massage my swollen feet, reminisce about when I was a baby. He surprised me with little comforts — a plush pillow, herbal tea blends, even a stuffed toy for the twins. For a while, I convinced myself everything would be okay.

Then Dad fell ill.

It happened frighteningly fast — a few days of fatigue, and then he was gone. Just like that. One day he was reading beside me, and the next, I was staring at his empty chair.

I never got a proper goodbye.