When the nurse called, her words lingered long after the line went silent. “There are things you need to know.” That phrase echoed in my mind like a warning, stirring memories I had spent years trying to bury. My father’s death was not just the end of a chapter — it was the reopening of wounds I thought had healed and the unveiling of truths that had been sealed away for decades.
Flying home for the funeral felt like descending into a world that no longer belonged to me. The house, once alive with my childhood laughter, now stood cold and hollow, a shrine to a past I had long outgrown. Vivien, my stepmother, had arranged everything — the ceremony, the guest list, even the tone of mourning — ensuring that I remained a polite observer in a story that should have been mine too.
When I approached the coffin, hoping for a quiet moment of farewell, Vivien intercepted me with that familiar sweetness that barely masked her venom. “Lucian, let’s not make a scene. This is about family,” she whispered, her voice dripping with condescension. Her words struck with the precision of a blade, reminding me yet again of my place — the unwanted son, the outsider.
I said nothing. There was no point. The man who might have defended me now lay still, beyond apologies and explanations. The funeral ended as it had begun — controlled, orchestrated, and hollow. But beneath the grief, a growing sense of unease took root. The nurse’s voice haunted me. What was it she believed I needed to know?
The answer would come sooner than I expected — at the reading of my father’s will, where the fragile balance of our fractured family was about to be shattered once and for all.