A month after my mother died, my best friend married my 68-year-old father. I called her a traitor and cut them both out of my life. Then, on my birthday, she showed up at my office with a black box and a warning: “Open it when you’re alone.” Inside was a secret my mother had taken to her grave.
Three weeks after my mother’s funeral, the house still felt like it was waiting for her.
I stood in the doorway watching Lydia fold my father’s shirts into careful, perfect squares.
“You don’t have to do that,” I told her.
“I know.” She didn’t look up.
Lydia and I had been best friends since we were eleven.
I never imagined how quickly it would all fall apart.
“You don’t have to do that,”
“Thank you for being here,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She finally glanced at me.
“I promised your mom I’d look after you both,” she said. “I meant it.”
For a second, something flickered across her face.
Guilt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
