I sat alone in a folding chair in the corner, clutching my dad’s old wristwatch — the one with the cracked face he wore like armor.
“I made all the arrangements yesterday.”
When people offered their condolences, I nodded. I didn’t know what to say.
The only thing I wanted to tell them was, He was the best part of me.
But no one ever asks for that.
That night, I stayed in my childhood room. The bed was stripped, the closet almost empty — like I was already gone.
The next morning, the last of the guests were barely out the door when Cheryl found me in the kitchen.
I didn’t know what to say.
“You said you weren’t planning to stay,” she said, waving a counter down.
“I just need a few more hours,” I said, looking up from my coffee. “I still need to pack.”
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed.
“This house is mine now. And so are the accounts. You’re not entitled to anything.”
“I’m not asking for anything… except Dad’s guitar. Please. That’s all I want.”
“I still need to pack.”
Cheryl gave me a long look — the kind of look someone gives a stain on their carpet — and disappeared into the garage.
When she came back, she wasn’t holding the guitar. She was holding my dad’s old work boots. They were caked in dried mud, the leather was cracked, and the laces knotted.
She tossed them at my feet like trash.
“Here,” she said. “Take his junk. That’s all he left behind.”
Cheryl gave me a long look…
“Those boots built half this town, Cheryl…” I stared down at them.
“Then let the town take you in,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Now you have 30 minutes to leave.”
I slept in my car that night. And the next. And the week after that.
I kept the boots in the passenger seat. They smelled like sawdust, old motor oil, and something faintly sweet — his cologne, maybe. Or maybe it was just memory playing tricks on me.
“You have 30 minutes to leave.”
Sometimes I leaned on them. Other times, I talked to them.
“I’m trying, Dad,” I whispered once, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. “I’m trying not to hate her. I really am.”
I applied deodorant in gas station bathrooms and kept a toothbrush in my glovebox. I used quarters to buy fast food and linked to friends who texted to “check in.” No one had a couch.
Two weeks later, I found myself in a gas station bathroom, sitting on the edge of a cracked sink with a wet napkin in my hand.
“I’m trying, Dad.”
The left heel had dried red clay caked into it — the kind you find behind old construction sites.
“I should probably clean you up,” I muttered.
I scrubbed, just to keep my hands busy. But that’s when I felt it, something shifted under the napkin.
I stopped. I tilted the boot, and it wobbled.
“I should probably clean you up.”
I frowned and ran my thumb along the heel. There was a slight give — like the sole wasn’t fully attached. I dug my finger into the edge and peeled it back. The glue gave, and the heel split open.
Inside was a thick plastic packet, tucked and glued deep into the boot.
My hands shook.
I pray it loose, inch by inch.
