I still remember the cold weight of the coffee mug in my hands that morning. It had long since gone cold, but I kept holding it anyway, as if the familiar shape might steady me. The kitchen felt strangely hollow without my father’s quiet presence somewhere in the house. For a moment, I scrolled through the photos on my phone, stopping on one of him laughing with his arm slung around my shoulders. Behind us sat the Shelby he had spent decades restoring, its polished body shining in the afternoon sun.
My stepmother, Karen, wasn’t in any of those pictures.
A sudden car horn jolted me from the memory. My phone lit up with Karen’s name. Her voice sounded strained, almost fragile.
“Hazel… I can’t come today. I just can’t do it.”
“It’s Dad’s funeral,” I said quietly. “I can pick you up if you need.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But the doctor said stress could make things worse. Can you just… handle everything?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.”
Later that morning, I pulled into the church parking lot driving Dad’s Shelby. My own car had broken down earlier in the week, so I had been using his. Sitting behind that wheel felt strange—like both an honor and something I hadn’t quite earned.
Aunt Lucy hurried toward me as I stepped out.
“Oh, Hazel,” she said, glancing at the car. “Your father would have loved seeing it here today.”
“I figured it deserved to be here,” I replied with a faint smile.
Inside the church, sunlight filtered through stained glass, scattering colors across the wooden pews. For a moment I caught myself expecting Dad to walk in late with some casual excuse about traffic.
