There’s a strange dizziness that comes with grief, especially when you’re standing in a room full of people mourning the one person who made your life feel steady. At my stepfather Michael’s funeral, everyone spoke softly to me, squeezing my hands and telling me how much he loved me. He had died from pancreatic cancer at just fifty-six, and the speed of it all felt unreal. One year he was joking about my cooking mistakes, and the next he was gone. As people offered condolences, one thought kept repeating in my mind: he wasn’t supposed to leave me too.

Michael had come into my life when I was only two years old after he met my mother, Carina. I barely remembered a time before him. When my mom died in a car accident two years later, Michael didn’t treat me like a temporary responsibility—he became my parent in every way that mattered. He taught me practical things, stood by me through every stage of growing up, and when he got sick years later, I returned home to take care of him the same way he had always taken care of me. I believed I understood our story: tragedy, love, and the quiet strength that carried us through.....