The raw pain in his voice made my chest tight with emotions I didn't know how to process. Because this was my father, the man who'd taught me that problems had solutions and that hard work could fix almost anything. Seeing him broken like this felt like watching the foundations of reality crumble.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," I said quietly. "You're allowed to grieve."
"Am I?" Dad's voice cracked on the words. "Because it feels like if I let myself really feel this, really acknowledge what we've lost, I'll never stop falling. I'll just keep sinking until there's nothing left of the man she fell in love with."
I reached for his hand, fingers closing around worn wedding ring that he still wore despite everything. "She loved all of you, Dad. Even the parts that hurt. Even the parts that break."
That's when the dam finally burst.
Dad's face crumpled, and sobs tore out of his chest like they'd been trapped there for weeks. He doubled over, shoulders shaking with the force of grief that had been held back by nothing but stubborn pride and the misguided belief that fathers weren't supposed to fall apart in front of their children.
I pulled him against me, reversing a dynamic that had lasted my entire life. Now I was the one offering comfort, the one whispering that everything would be okay even when I had no idea if that was true.
"I miss her so much," he gasped against my shoulder. "I miss her voice, her laugh, the way she hummed while she cooked dinner. I miss the way she'd steal the covers and then claim she didn't do it. I miss having someone who knew me well enough to tell me when I was being an idiot."
"I know." My own tears were falling now, hot and shameful and long overdue. "I miss her too."
"How do we do this?" Dad pulled back just enough to look at me, desperation written in every line of his face. "How do we keep going when the best part of our lives is gone?"
"I don't know," I admitted, because lies wouldn't help either of us now. "I've been asking myself the same question every day since it happened."
We sat in the wreckage of our living room, father and son united in grief that felt too big for human hearts to contain. Around us, the house whispered with memories of birthday parties and Christmas mornings, homework arguments and bedtime stories, all the ordinary moments that added up to a life worth mourning.
"I keep thinking I should sell the lot," Dad said eventually, voice steadier now that the worst of the storm had passed. "Take whatever insurance money comes through and start over somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't have her fingerprints on every surface."
"Is that what you want?"
Dad was quiet for a long moment, staring at the broken frame like it held answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. "No," he said finally. "I want to rebuild. I want to fix what they broke and make it better than it was before. I want to plant new flowers in her garden and paint the kitchen that color she always said would be perfect but we never got around to trying."
The fierce determination in his voice caught me off guard, a glimpse of the man he'd been before grief had hollowed him out.
"Then let's do it," I said. "Let's rebuild."
"Nate, the cost alone?—"
"I don't care about the cost." The words came out stronger than I felt, carrying conviction I wasn't sure I possessed. "Money's just numbers. This is home. This is where she lived and loved and raised me to be someone she could be proud of. We don't abandon that because some monsters tried to take it away from us."
Dad studied my face with the attention of someone trying to read a map in a foreign language. "You really mean that."
"I mean it." I squeezed his hand, anchoring us both to the decision. "We rebuild. We make it beautiful again. We fill it with new memories that honor the old ones without being trapped by them."
"It won't be the same," he warned.
"No. It'll be different. But different doesn't have to mean worse."
For the first time since Mom's death, Dad smiled. It was small and fragile and weighted with sorrow, but it was real. "She would have liked that plan."
"She would have had opinions about paint colors and furniture placement and where to put the new security system," I said, managing my own smile. "She would have driven us both crazy with her attention to detail."
"And we would have loved every minute of it," Dad finished.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, surrounded by destruction but somehow looking toward a future that might include hope alongside the grief. It wouldn't be easy—nothing about rebuilding a life ever was. But maybe that was okay. Maybe easy wasn't what we needed right now.
"I should go," I said eventually. "Evan will worry if he wakes up and I'm gone."
"How are things with him?" Dad asked, and there was something careful in his voice, like he was testing waters that might be deeper than they appeared.
"Complicated." The understatement of the century, but true enough. "He wants to protect me from everything, including myself. I want to fight alongside him. We're still figuring out how to make those things compatible."
