Seventeen years after my
parents dropped me off at my grandfathers house for a weekend and disappeared, they returned the morning after his funeral with a massive moving truck rather than flowers or condolences. I stood on the porch wearing one of my grandfathers old flannel shirts, holding a cup of untouched coffee, while the house still smelled strongly of funeral lilies, damp autumn air, and his lingering pipe tobacco. My younger sister Chloe climbed out of the truck wearing oversized designer sunglasses, completely ignoring the black mourning wreath hanging on the front door as she immediately laid claim to the master bedroom upstairs. My mother marched up the wooden steps as if she already owned the property, scrutinizing my appearance with obvious disdain before forcefully pushing two black garbage bags into my hands. She coldly informed me that since I was only my grandfathers burden, my time in the house was permanently over and I needed to pack my belongings. My father offered no hugs or sympathy, choosing instead to immediately direct the moving crew to start hauling away the upstairs furniture.
