“He’s finally at peace,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Theo just nodded, glancing at his phone.
Our father, Elton, had been my world. After Mom died when I was 12, it was just the three of us in that beautiful two-story Craftsman house on Greenfork Street.
Dad worked double shifts at the factory to keep us fed, and when Theo went off to college, I stayed. I painted Dad’s toenails when arthritis stole his mobility. I drove him to chemo appointments. I held his hand through those final, painful weeks.
