ROBBIE
Work had given me theweek off as compassionate leave.Part of me felt detached, like I was no longer part of the real world — just a spectator, watching as others got on with their lives.While mine was...on hold.
I wanted to bury my head in my pillow and pretend that my life hadn’t just tilted on its axis.That this was just a nightmare that would end when I woke up.Then I’d head over to my parents on Sunday, and everything would be...normal.
Memories of Dad standing in the kitchen, getting brunch ready while Dave and Mum were shopping.I’d chat with him about work before settling into my seat in the conservatory, half-watching DVDs I’d already seen a dozen times while I tried my hand at writing my first paranormal romance story.
Inspiration had struck in a moment of madness — and an unexpected burst of self-belief.When my family asked what I was doing, tapping away on my laptop, I’d deflect their questions, skirting around the plotline and the characters.I wasn’t sure how they’d react to me telling them it was a gay romance, not some random cute-meet boy-meets-girl novel.
But that Sunday, I did.I made myself speak, even though I was terrified and felt slightly sick inside.I fully expected Dad’s reaction to be volcanic — a blast of scorn and disbelief.
Only it wasn’t.
It was almost anticlimactic how cool he acted.Like his youngest son admitting he was writing a gay vampire romance novel happened every day.It was me who’d blown it out of proportion in my head, verging on a mini panic attack.
And for a moment, I was stunned.So taken aback that I almost missed his words of praise, encouraging me to carry on and chase my dream.
If only...I could turn back time.
Dressing, I forcedmyself to move.My body felt sluggish, drained — my feet shuffling like a zombie from The Walking Dead.I was supposed to be back at Mum’s again today.Mum’s, not Mum and Dad’s.Just that one little change stole the breath from my lungs, stopping me in my tracks.A wave of grief hit me like a sledgehammer to the heart.
I’d gladly be anywhere else.Be anyone else.Rather than walk into that house again.
The traffic was mercifully light, and it wasn’t long before I was pulling up outside the one place my heart begged me to avoid.Releasing a shuddering breath, I closed my eyes and cleared my mind.I was determined to push the heartbreaking thoughts aside, locking them away in the depths of my mind, refusing to let them consume me.
Stepping over the threshold, I walked into what felt like a haunted house.Climbing the stairs, I entered my father’s home office.The room seemed dimmer, as if the sunlight had been swallowed by the shadows of sorrow.I could taste the bitterness of regret — a burning sensation that started in my throat and spread through me like wildfire.Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision; their salty taste mingling with the heavy atmosphere.I fought against the urge to let them fall.Crying wouldn’t bring my dad back.I knew that for a fact.Otherwise, he’d still be here.
The scent of my father’s body spray hung in the air, clinging to his discarded fleece jacket still draped over the back of his chair.The paperwork strewn across the desk was a visual reminder of the daunting task ahead.I clenched my fists, feeling the tension in my muscles, my blunted nails digging into my palms — preferring physical pain over the emotional burden I carried.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on me, urging me to stay strong.Not just for Mum and Dave, but for myself too.I refused to let grief rule me.
With determined focus, I began the process of removing my father’s name from the house accounts, replacing it with Mum’s.Every pen stroke felt like a cut to my soul.With every keystroke, the void inside me grew bigger.
The house was so quiet you could hear a mouse fart.Not that the house had mice...at least I hope to fuck it didn’t.Otherwise, I’d be doing a pretty good impersonation of the woman standing on a chair in Tom and Jerry.Only there was no cat here either, so if there was a mouse, we’d be totally screwed.
Annnnd my brain is doing that avoidance thing again — dissociating from reality, escaping into a safe place of...trivialness.
So far, I’d contacted the DVLA and changed the registered owner of Dad’s car, cancelled his RAC roadside assistance membership, and stopped his model car collector’s magazine subscription.It felt wrong going through his papers like this.
I didn’t really get involved when Mum’s father died.Not that I called him Granddad.Nope — I called him the Gnome because he was five-foot-two and enjoyed fishing.He’d been an engineer, and as a boy, I used to “help” him when he worked on his car.And by help, I mean I got in the way, handed him the wrong spanner, and ended up covered in oil.
Not that he ever complained.He just calmly explained each task while I subjected him to my music.I can’t listen to Lady Gaga without thinking of him.
Maybe music was what I needed now.
With a few taps, I set my phone’s music app to random.My brain was slow to respond — much like Dad’s desktop computer, which I’d need to log into at some point.
Drop.
Drop.
The sound barely registered as fat tears fell from my chin, soaking into the paper.I moved them aside the moment my eyes landed on a greeting card pinned to the cork noticeboard.
‘Happy Father’s Day — to the world’s best dad.’
My vision blurred, distorting the words but not erasing them from my mind’s eye.At the same time, the opening bars of Don’t You Cry Tonight by Guns N’ Roses mixed with the sound of my muffled sobs.
A while later, once my tears had dried, I pushed up from my seat, feeling both cathartic and drained.There would be more days like this until the task was done.But this was more than enough for one day — and I still had to face sitting around a dinner table set for three, not four.
