Five days ago I buried my stepfather Michael, the man who had been my entire world since my mother died in a car accident when I was four. He raised me as his own without hesitation, teaching me everything from changing a tire to balancing a checkbook, and I cared for him until pancreatic cancer took him at fifty-six. After the funeral, while our house was filled with murmuring guests and suffocating grief, my Aunt Sammie approached me with a sickly sweet offer to take me home, hinting that I shouldn’t be alone.
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