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Everyone found something meaningful to say at the funeral. Elijah reminisced about the handful of times they met. Joe talked of forgiveness. Mike reminded us of the love he witnessed firsthand in my calls and those silly smiles when I shared Dean's small victories. My mom's shaky voice echoed a sentiment I felt deep in my core - "he wasn't a bad man, just hurting."
"He lives on a bit," Hank said, his voice a low rumble of emotion, "in you, Lina."
Then it was my turn. And words seemed useless, an insult to the complex man behind the flat image he left behind.
"We barely knew each other," I admitted as I stared at the cold box that held him now, "Dad, I wish we could’ve just had one more day together. A walk, maybe even an awkward lunch. Instead it’s this, and it feels like I’m staring at an ending with the rest of the story gone. There’s guilt,” I confessed, letting my voice tremble, “and regret. But also, a weird kind of understanding. Life sucks sometimes. It doesn’t care what’s deserved. People, well, we break. Or, we try and maybe that’s enough. Goodbye, Dad. I hope you aren’t lonely anymore, wherever you went.”
Later on, Mike told me, “Right now there’s pain. Embrace it. Crying it out doesn't cure everything. Pretending you're stronger than you really are only builds it up for later. And later always hits worse, trust me. You bury that stuff – your anger at this being unfair, the missing him even when you hardly knew him - then those feelings turn into something uglier.Maybe some folks can move on faster. Maybe you aren't built that way. Don't apologize for being whoever you gotta be.”
Ashes in an urn, and the finality of it all hung heavy. It wasn't a fairytale ending. Dad’s story would always have missing chapters, the good parts mixed with a tragic reality. But I had a hand to hold in the walk away from that cemetery. Not Dad’s, but ones weathered and familiar, of the family I had found. Maybe there weren't ever meant to be perfect answers, just those messy ones built in the shadows of brokenness.
Home again, with a silence more jarring than even that of dad's funeral. Each of them had quietly dispersed – Ron with my mother, Joe and Mike back to their life. There was no more need for forced unity, just the bleak normality of tomorrow. My hand instinctively went to the leather journal by my side, pages waiting to be filled with an unknown future. But first, there was still one place untouched. His room.
With a hesitant breath, I pushed open the worn curtain. There were dozens of letters. My name sprawled in his unsteady handwriting on tattered envelopes. Picking one, I found the words to be rambling and repetitive. Some were desperate plea for forgiveness, others just everyday observations filled with an aching loneliness.
The next was much the same, and the next. An hour must have passed. Yet, something extraordinary began to happen as I made my way through each agonizing sentence. It wasn't the words themselves, but the raw honesty in them. No excuses made, no pretending everything was going to be alright. His despair had leaked onto each page, his broken spirit begging for something he barely understood himself. I wasn't reading to feel pity, nor even love. It was just witnessing. For the first time, I felt like I was finally getting to know the real Dean. He wrote not as the father I craved, nor as the man wanting to end his ownlife. He was just Dean – all his flaws, his darkness, and an ever-present hope glimmering beneath, desperate to surface.
The tears fell with less abandon as each letter blurred into a testament of that strange, human kind of survival. My own hurt didn't vanish, but as I gently placed the last of them on his bed, my reflection stared back from the window. In my hands, I cradled the last fragments of him, not the dad I lost, but a complete person who wrestled with a demon none of us understood. Dad didn't become some tragic hero in death, but he wasn't the monster either. He was just heartbreakingly human.
I took those worn envelopes, those pages of desperate ramblings, and held them tightly to my chest. And there it was, finally. Not closure, but the beginning of understanding. He may have left behind too little, but I still held those raw parts of who he was – the good and the terrible. This would be his legacy, his final love letter in broken sentences and unsteady scribbles, and I would cherish it forever.
That's when I truly understood Mike’s ever-present companion, the raggedy teddy bear. It was not a childish attachment, but a constant against that terrible emptiness he knew too well. The emptiness that comes from losing one’s parents. A way to remember them, feel them, without words or forced understanding. A little proof that love survives, even in a worn-out toy and a few fading letters.
Chapter 15: Lina
WEEKS PASSED, AND A STRANGE SORT OF NORMALCY NESTLED into the gaping hole Dad's absence left behind. It didn't erase the lingering 'what ifs' that crept up in the late-night quiet, but during the day, something clicked into place.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and Joe's sprawling mansion had somehow morphed into the ultimate imaginary adventure zone. Mike was channeling his inner pirate captain, complete with a spoon-turned-sword and an epic growly voice, while I held down the fort - fashioned out of couch cushions, naturally - against an unrelenting attack of space monkey. And by space monkey, I meant Bubbles, adorned with a strategically placed pair of socks as makeshift laser-gun goggles.
As our epic standoff reached its climax, the booming announcement that echoed through the room brought us to a screeching halt.
"Grocery shopping," Daddy proclaimed. "Let's get to it, team!"
Mike and I exchanged horrified glances. "Grocery shopping?" I gasped dramatically, clutching my space monkey repelling laser weapon, aka a half-eaten bag of pretzels. "But we're on the verge of intergalactic peace negotiations! Don't they see the fate of the cosmos hangs in the balance?"
"Not just galactic peace," Mike chimed in with theatrical gravity, "We're like superheroes here. You can't abandon civilians amidst a space monkey invasion! You simply can’t!"
I saw the telltale smirk spreading across Daddy's face, and Uncle Joe leaned against the doorway, watching us with amusement. Here it was. Daddy versus Little, round... who even knew anymore?
"Superheroes?" Daddy snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. "More like sugar-crazed super-villains! Remember that time with the powdered donut attack?"
Mike's eyes flew wide as saucers. "That wasn't our fault! It was a trap! Those displays were strategically positioned for maximum casualties." He mimicked scattering white powdery explosions as he spoke.
I jumped in, the defense flowing with righteous indignation. "And when you and Uncle Joe had that forbidden shopping cart race down aisle seven? Talk about rogue operations, Daddy!"
A slight blush dusted Daddy's normally serious face, and he quickly countered, "Okay, fine, I might have let loose that one time. But Lina, my little anarchist, what about that time you insisted on tasting directly from the giant tub of cheese balls?"
The exchange devolved into a flurry of increasingly absurd accusations and hilarious attempts at justification. There were spontaneous cartwheel demonstrations in the middle of imagined produce sections, the critical study of chip displays during daring investigations, and a spirited plan to construct an impenetrable barrier. Somewhere in the chaos, my somber mood gave way to a wave of silly, breathless laughter. It felt like forever since I'd felt truly light.
Mike collapsed in a giggling heap beside me, a stray crayon clutched in his fist. Still trying to sound indignant, he choked out, "Fine, the stupid grocery store can wait. Apparently,they aren't equipped to handle our super-awesome level of awesomeness."
"Maybe," I panted, my own mirth starting to exhaust me, "If we make our way through the store without creating a disaster, they'll reward us with..."
In unison, the ultimate prize was uttered in hushed, reverent tones, "...Dino-nuggets!"
I watched the way Joe's eyes softened on Mike, just as my Daddy always looked at me.
Then with a hug that seemed to encompass all the warmth of the Daddies, they were out the door. Their retreating laughter bounced playfully along with our whispered plans of dinosaur-themed picnics, a world away from the real one outside.
