I folded another sweater into my duffel bag. I was heading home for my father’s wedding to Susan, a woman he got engaged to a few years ago.
She was 10 years younger than him, and we never really got along, but I kept the peace for Dad’s sake.
I didn’t know it then, but Susan had already done something that would put us at loggerheads once I got home.
I was heading home for my father’s wedding.
I glanced at the framed photo by my bed.
My mother smiled back at me, young and bright, her dark hair catching sunlight on what must have been an ordinary afternoon.
She died of cancer when I was 12.
I was 21 now, and some days the grief still felt fresh.
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