There’s a dizziness that comes with grief, especially when you’re surrounded by people mourning the one person who made your world feel steady. They squeeze your hands like you might break. They call you “sweetheart” in trembling voices. They speak softly, as if sorrow has turned you into glass.
My stepdad, Michael, died of pancreatic cancer at 56. One year, he was strong enough to tease me about burning pasta. The next, he was gone—so fast it felt like time had stolen him while I wasn’t looking.
At his funeral, a neighbor hugged me and whispered:
“You were everything to him.”
I nodded. I thanked her. I thanked everyone.
But inside, one thought echoed:
You weren’t supposed to leave me, too.....