Because he isn’t here. And no matter how many people stream past, saying how sorry they are, that’s the only thing I can hear in my head.
My mind keeps circling back to that Thursday morning. The last time.
Tori had just walked out of the office with Dr. Johnson’s exams when my phone lit up with Linda’s name. I knew before I even answered. Her voice was steady, but her words cut straight through me.He doesn’t have much time left, Leo. You need to come now.
I didn’t think. Didn’t grab a coat. Didn’t say goodbye. I justleft. Keys and wallet in my pocket, my whole body ran on instinct—get to him.Get there before it’s too late.I don’t even remember half the drive, only the ache in my chest and the way my hands shook on the wheel.
But I made it.
When I walked into that bedroom, I could feel how close the end was. His breathing was shallow, his eyes half-lidded, but he was still George. Still himself, in the ways that mattered. Linda held one hand, Stephanie the other. Aaron standing close, his face pale and useless—because you didn’t really know this man. I sat at the foot of the bed because I couldn’t stand still, because I needed to be close, needed to be touching him, needed him to know I was here.
I told him everything I could fit into those last hours. That I loved him. That he had been the best father I’d ever had. That he’d given me more than I could ever repay—his trust, his laughter, his stubborn belief in me when no one else thought I was worth a damn. I told him I’d carry him with me, always. That he would never be gone from me. I even told him that if I ever did settle down and have a kid that I’d name the first one after him—even if it’s a girl.
With my luck I’ll probably end up getting a dog named George. Or a monkey. Probably a yellow hat to go with it.
I don’t know how much he heard. But I swear he did. I swear he knew. His mouth twitched—just the faintest smile. His fingers curled, weak but sure, around Linda’s hand. And that was enough.
When the end came, it was soft. No drama. No pain. Just one final breath, and then silence.
Linda and Stephanie stepped out to make calls. Aaron disappeared down the hall, useless as ever. And I stayed. Sat in that floral chair next to their bed, staring at the man who had been my compass, my anchor, my proof that not every man in this world valued their careers over the people they loved. I stayed until theycame to take him away, because I couldn’t leave him alone, not even then.
I was grateful for that time. Grateful to sit with him in the stillness, just the two of us. But now—now I don’t know what to do with the hole in my soul he left behind.
Because George wasn’tlikea father to me. Hewasmy father. The one who loved me, not because hehadto, but because hewantedto. The man who chose me even after the divorce was final and the State of Colorado said, “No, George, he’s not your son anymore.” He said, “You’re mine, son.” And losing him—it feels like someone carved out the part of me that could breathe, that could stand steady when everything else went to hell.
So here I am, a week later, standing in a funeral home line, listening to people tell me how much he loved melikea son. They don’t know. They’ll never understand. He was the best man I’ve ever known. The only one I’ve ever truly wanted to make proud. And now he’s gone.
Linda’s hand trembles again in mine. I squeeze tighter. For her. For me. For him. It’s the only way I know how to keep from falling apart right here in front of everyone.
I stepout of the line once the crowd thins, handing off Linda to Adam—I won’t leave her alone, I just need a minute. My body feels like stone. Too many hands on my shoulder. Too many murmuredhe was a good man, he’ll be missed—like anyone in this room could possibly put words to who George was, to what we lost. I need air. Space. A room that isn’t suffocating me in the smell of lilies and the press of other people’s grief against my own.
There’s a hallway off to the side, narrow and dim, that leads to a few small family rooms. I slip into one and shut the door behind me, the latch clicking too loud in the quiet.
The room is staged for comfort—soft lamps, high-backedchairs, a table with a box of tissues placed like a centerpiece. There’s a coffee urn in the corner. I pour a cup out of habit, but my hands shake so badly the liquid sloshes over the rim, and I set it down, untouched. I sink into one of the armchairs and lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the carpet until the patterns blur.
For the first time all day, I let myself feel it. All of it.
The weight of his absence hits me like a full body blow, the kind that steals all the breath out of your chest. I see him everywhere—George in his recliner, George standing over the grill, George tossing me a beer with that look that said he already knew my answer before he asked the question. I hear his laugh in my head, that deep rolling sound that made any room brighter, lighter. I can still feel the press of his frail hand in mine those last few weeks before he passed, the way his mouth twitched into the faintest smile as I told him I loved him on his last day. That I’d always carry him with me.
And then he was gone. Just… gone.
I couldn’t cry in front of all those people, but now, the tears come. Unbidden. Relentless. A sob rips from my chest and I bend forward further, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until the darkness behind my lids swirls.
He’s been gone for seven days, and for every one of those days I’ve stood here pretending like I know how to be upright without him. Pretending like I know how to breathe when every inhale cuts. Pretending like I can carry Linda’s grief and my own without breaking in half.
But I can’t. I can’t do it.
I thought I knew pain. I thought I knew heartbreak and loss and what it felt like for my entire world to fall out from beneath my feet. But that… that was nothing. Not compared to this.
Because even when everything else in my life was ripped to shreds, George was with me, holding me together, every step of the way.
And now? When the most important person in my life is gone? When the man who glued my soul back together, piece by piece—even after his own daughter was the one to destroy it—is gone?
The door opens softly behind me, and I drag my hands down my face, wiping away what tears I can before looking up. Stephanie.
Her eyes are swollen—I assume mine look much the same—her mascara smudged, and she looks younger than I’ve seen her in years. She looks almost like the girl I met in college, only now, instead of an added layer of confidence and sex appeal, she’s stripped down and fragile.
Stephanie hesitates, hovering just inside the doorway like she’s not sure if I’ll tell her to leave.
