When I arrived, I froze at the sight of police cars lining the driveway. Red and blue lights flickered against the windows that had once been my home. My chest tightened. For a split second, my mind raced through terrible possibilities. I threw cash at the taxi driver and ran before the car fully stopped.
“Wait,” my stepdad called. His face was pale, eyes swollen, shoulders slumped as if carrying something unbearable.
“What happened?” I asked.
He couldn’t form the words. He simply gestured inside.
Two officers stood quietly in the living room. An ambulance idled outside. On the couch, beneath a white sheet, was a still shape I recognized instantly.
His son had died suddenly in his sleep. Later, doctors said it was a rare, undiagnosed heart condition.
The room felt unreal. My stepdad collapsed into a chair beside me, sobbing. “I failed you,” he whispered. “I let my grief turn into anger.”
Then he handed me a folder—my mother’s will. She had left the house to both of us, set aside money for my education, and written me a letter reminding me I was deeply loved.
