It’s Saturday—Small Business Saturday, apparently. I’ve been sick for over a week, and my sister-in-law (or whatever you call someone divorcing your brother) dropped off my nephew. He carried a mix of sadness and unease, scared of the dogs I was watching through Rover. His life has been full of changes these past couple of years, and the weight of it all is heavy on his newly 12-year-old shoulders. Together, we worked on the homemade vanilla I give out at Christmas and watched part of Uncle Buck. Even now, as I write these few sentences, I feel like I could write 500 more trying to explain the complexity of the situation.

If you see me in public and ask how I’ve been, I’ll say, “Okay.” But if you know me—or ask a single follow-up question—you’d learn that the last 5.5 years have been a parade of grief: 18 funerals. It began with a friend. I called my mom to discuss my funeral outfit, my aunt for advice on shoes, and stopped by to visit my grandma on the way back. Each of those women was gone within two years—my mom, not even 10 days later; my grandma, two months after that; and my aunt fought valiantly for another year and a half. Then, in 2022, my dad passed away. But his death didn’t bring the relief I thought it might. Instead, it became another chapter in a long story of unspoken truths, unresolved feelings, and the haunting silence of things never shared.

My dad’s death came suddenly, though it felt inevitable. On Easter weekend, we’d gathered at my mom’s sister’s house for a lovely time. By Tuesday, at 3:57 p.m., I got a text from my aunt: “Your dad is on life support.” Life support? My dad had been near death so many times it felt routine—hospitalizations, resuscitations, and stints in physical rehab centers. He’d even been kicked out of one for sneaking in alcohol and smoking while on oxygen. I didn’t think this time would be any different. I was furious that it interrupted therapy. My poor therapist tried to make me see the gravity of it, but I was stubborn.

After therapy, I called my brother. “He’s alive,” he said, “but it looks fake. He’s on a vent but screaming at everyone.” They were waiting for my uncle to arrive before taking him off life support. I offered to go, but my brother declined. I wasn’t going for my dad—I’d have gone for my brother alone. My dad had fractured relationships everywhere, lying even to his closest friends about his daughter who he knew about her whole life. My brother told me he stabilized once off the ventilator, so I went to work the next morning, convinced it was another false alarm. But at 7:23 a.m., I got the text: “It is finally over. He is gone.”

I walked straight to my boss’s office, interrupting his meeting with tears streaming down my face. “My dad died,” I said. The tears came, but not from sadness. It was something deeper, something natural—like an unmooring. I stayed half the day, made sub plans for 5 days, and met my brother and sister-in-law for lunch. The next morning, we began the grim task of clearing out my dad’s apartment. We bought a cremation plan. (He had told everyone he had already purchased it. Another lie) After we handed over our credit cards the funeral director gave us a loaf of bread from a local bakery. Your dad is dead here is some bread. That is how things work I guess.

My friend met me the next morning at 6 a.m. to help clean out the wreckage of his life and his disgusting apartment he had moved into. It was devastating. We threw away things that shouldn’t exist—like a book justifying old men loving young girls—and felt violated by the personal photos he kept of mine. In one instance my friend realized how disassociated I was and informed my brother and sister in law we are doing a dump run. He needed me out and get my head above water for a minute or two. I was forced to be in the place of the man who abused me was not the thing I wanted to be doing.

The next two days were  dealt with by the only team that had remained steady: me, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my friend. We’ve been a team since Mom’s death, bound together by grief, resilience, and the strength to keep moving forward. I think it is why everything is so messed up now. What I had thought was a team, was a lie. Just like that Easter Sunday. There is information we do not know and here I am doing what I feel is best with the information I had at the time.