I still remember that Christmas Day like a thunderbolt striking in slow motion. We’d only buried my mother a month earlier, and the grief was still fresh—like a wound that refused to scab over. Yet there I was, standing in our living room, watching my father introduce his mistress as our “new mom.” My heart felt like it shattered in my chest.
My mom had been the heart of our family, even in her final days with cancer. The last time she spoke to me, the beeping hospital machines echoed in the background. She squeezed my hand, her gaze steady.
“Lily,” she whispered, “promise me you’ll take care of your sisters and your father. He doesn’t do well alone. But please, don’t let him forget me, okay?”
I promised through tears, never imagining how quickly that promise would be tested.
In the weeks after the funeral, the house felt hollow. My sisters, Katie and Sarah, and I tried our best to hold each other up, while also keeping a worried eye on Dad. He seemed lost, drifting from room to room, lingering in Mom’s garden, or brushing his hand over her clothes in the closet. It hurt to watch, but I understood—losing someone so integral is like losing a piece of yourself.
Then, nearly overnight, everything changed. Two weeks after Mom’s funeral, Dad cleared out all her belongings without telling us—her favorite blue Christmas sweater, her shoes, her clothes, gone. “It’s just taking up space,” he said when I confronted him. “She wouldn’t want us dwelling on it.”
I stood there speechless, my heart pounding. I wanted to scream that he was erasing her, but I couldn’t find the right words. Suddenly, he started going to the gym, switching up his hairstyle, and buying new clothes. Katie tried to reassure me with, “Maybe he’s just coping in his own way,” and Sarah agreed. But it didn’t feel like grief—it felt like he was running from it.
Three weeks after Mom’s passing, Dad called us together for a “family meeting.” When we sat down, he announced, “I’ve met someone. Her name is Amanda, and she makes me happy.”
He looked at me like he expected congratulations. My jaw dropped. It had only been three weeks. Katie went pale, Sarah looked ready to bolt, and I couldn’t hold my anger.
“It’s been three weeks, Dad,” I snapped. “Three weeks.”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Life doesn’t stop, Lily. I loved your mother, but she’s gone. Amanda is part of my life now, and I want her to be part of this family.”
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