Sam lets out a tiny, shaky breath. "Hi, Dad," she whispers, voice wobbling. "I've been... um... trying really hard this year. Classes are insane, but I'm doing well. I'm trying to take care of Mom like you told me to."
She sniffles, wiping at her cheeks even though more tears fall.
"I miss you every day. I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that."
Silence spreads out around us. Heavy. Thick. The kind that drops into your lungs and stays there.
I swallow hard, my throat burning, and clear it enough to speak.
"Hey, Dad."
My voice comes out rough, embarrassingly rough, but I push through.
"We're... we're okay. Some days suck. Some days are... better. But we're doing our best."
Caroline squeezes my hand again. I squeeze back, letting the pressure steady me.
I look at the stone—his name, his birthdate, the date everything fell apart... and the small carving of a hockey stick Mom made them add because"he'd complain from heaven if they didn't."
"I hope I'm making you proud," I whisper, my voice breaking halfway through. "I hope I'm the man you wanted me to be."
My heart cinches so hard it feels like the air is punched from my lungs.
I clear my throat again, staring at his name like I'm trying to will him back.
"And don't worry about Mom and Sam. I've got them. Always."
I tighten my grip around Mom.
"I'll take care of them. I promise. Just like I told you I would."
My voice drops even lower, barely more than air.
"Love you, Dad."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, a gust of wind sweeps through the cemetery—stronger than the gentle breeze before, rustling the flowers, tugging at our clothes, brushing against the side of my face.
And for a second—just one second—it almost feels like he's here.
Watching us.
Still with us.
Still ours.
The rest of the day passes in a blur after that—quiet, heavy, the kind of silence that settles into the walls.
Later that night, the grief feels heavier.
Mom barely touched dinner. She stayed curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at nothing. She cried quietly for hours — the kind of crying that comes from a place so deep you can't stop it, even if you try.
When more people came by the house to pay their respects, Mom couldn't even get up to greet them. She just nodded from the couch, red-eyed, apologizing in a whisper. Sam did most of the talking. I hovered, trying to fill the gaps, trying to pretend I wasn't watching Mom fall apart in slow motion.
By the time everyone left, Mom's wine glass was half-empty again — more than she ever drinks. I didn't say a thing. Today wasn't the day to remind her about moderation.
She cried again on my shoulder before bed, whispering Dad's name like it was the only word she remembered. It tore something open inside me watching her break like that — like grief was reopening old wounds with sharper teeth.
I stayed with her until her breaths evened out and her eyelids finally stopped fluttering.
