Linda stood there.
My stepmother.
Perfectly styled hair. Crisp silk blouse. Sharp eyes that inspected me like an inconvenience delivered by mistake.
For a brief moment, I thought she might flinch. Or soften. Or at least seem surprised.
She didn’t.
“You’re out,” she said flatly.
“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded unfamiliar—rough, too loud.
Her lips tightened.
Then she said it.
“Your father died last year.”
The words hovered, unreal.
Buried.
A year ago.
My mind refused to accept it. I waited for clarification. For cruelty disguised as a joke.
