Zoe
I visited my father's grave on a quiet Sunday morning, alone at first, needing a private moment before the small gathering I'd planned for later that afternoon. The cemetery sat peaceful and green under early summer sunlight, and I knelt beside his headstone with a bouquet of simple wildflowers, the same kind he used to point out during our old fishing trips, back before I understood any of the danger quietly shadowing our ordinary life together.
"Hey, Dad," I said softly, arranging the flowers carefully. "It's been a while since I visited properly. I'm sorry for that. Things have been busy, in the best possible way."
I told him everything, the words coming easier now after months of practice processing this complicated, tangled grief. The garage, fully rebuilt and thriving beyond a
