Once, when I was eight, I caught him splitting a sandwich in half after claiming he had already eaten dinner.
“Why are you cutting that?” I asked.
“I thought you might still be hungry.”
“What about you?”
He smiled and pushed both halves toward me.
“I had something at work.”
Even then, I knew he was lying.
During a winter power outage, he lit candles and built a tent from blankets in the living room.
“We’re camping,” he announced.
Years later, I understood that he had turned off the electricity himself because he needed another week to pay the bill.
Whenever I asked why he worked so hard, he kissed the top of my head.
“Because you’re worth every sore muscle, Daddy’s Bug.”
I grew up promising him things.
A better house.
A long vacation.
A kitchen where the cabinets closed properly.
Quiet Sundays when he wouldn’t have to wake before sunrise.
I thought I had time to give him all of it.
Then cancer arrived.
Eight months after his diagnosis, I stood beside his grave while the life I had planned for us disappeared with him.
For illustrative purposes only
Part Three: The Evidence on the Kitchen Table
Dad’s apartment felt strangely unfamiliar without him.
His coffee mug sat beside the sink.
His work gloves rested on the counter.
A grocery list was still attached to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a ladybug.
For one terrible moment, I expected him to walk in and ask why I was making such a mess.
I emptied the plastic bag onto the kitchen table.
Mr. Lewis stayed near the doorway.
“Don’t explain anything for him,” I said. “I need to see it for myself.”
