“I’ve got it,” I say softly. “You can stop worrying now.”
My fingers curl tighter around his, holding on to something that has already slipped beyond reach.
“I’ve got it, Daddy.”
I sit there with his hand in mine and breathe because breathing is the only thing my body remembers how to do. The room seems to expand and contract at once, holding every version of him that has ever existed here. Sunday mornings. Coffee rings on the table. Dirt under his nails. The low hum of his voice, explaining something complicated as if it were simple.
The weight of his love remains in the air, a beam that will not collapse just because the man who built it has stepped away.
For a long time, I stayexactlywhere I am.
Because leaving this moment feels like leaving him.
And I am not ready to do that yet.
Will crosses the room. He sits beside me on the edge of the bed and puts his arm around me. I lean into him, and I let myself be held.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t try to make it better.
He stays, which is the only thing that was ever needed, and the only thing he has ever been.
I don’t cry right away.
I sit with my father’s hand in mine, and I breathe, letting the reality of it settle into me like water into dry ground, slow and thorough, reaching every part.
“Will,” I whisper.
He clings to me tighter, and I sink into him. “I know, baby… I know.” He gently kisses the top of my head. Holding me so tight, I feel like I might pop. But honestly, I am thankful for that right now. It’s the only thing letting me know that this is real.
My eyes fog, glazing over as I sit, staring at my father.
I don’t even know how long we’ve been sitting here for.
Just… staring.
Until Will exhales and leans down to look me in the eyes. “Mills, we need to call people.”
My bottom lip begins to tremble, and the tears finally find their way through the shock, sliding down my cheeks.
He brings his thumb up, wiping them away. “C’mon, let’s go out into the living room. I’ll make the calls.”
“I don’t want to leave him,” I say.
“He’s not going anywhere right now, but I want you where I can see you while I make these calls...please?”His eyes narrowon me like he is genuinely concerned, and that shifts something inside me.
I glance back at my dad, a man who was so strong all his life, reduced to this. I sniff back, wiping my face, and on shaky legs, I stand, reaching out for Will’s hand, and he weakly smiles, walking me out to the living room.
I move to Dad’s armchair, sitting down in it, surrounding myself with him as Will sits beside me on the sofa and begins making calls.
It’s all white noise, and time blends.
I stare at nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. I don’t even really register when the funeral home attendants arrive. Though some part of me registers that they are here.
Two of them, kind and unhurried, handling everything with a gentleness I won’t be able to put into words for a long time. There are forms and calls, and the careful work of the world reasserting its procedures, and I let Will manage most of it because he is capable and calm, and because my father would have approved of someone taking the practical weight off my hands tonight.
At some point, during the space between the funeral attendants leaving and the first gray light of morning coming through the curtains, I walk to my father’s desk.
