Three months after my mom’s funeral, my dad married her sister. I told myself grief made people do strange things. Then my brother arrived late to the wedding, pulled me aside, and handed me a letter Mom never wanted me to read.I didn’t think anything could feel worse than watching my mom die. I was wrong.she fought breast cancer for almost three years. Toward the end, she barely had the strength to sit up, but she still asked me if I ate, if my brother, Robert, paid his bills on time, and if Dad remembered to take his blood pressure meds.Even dying, she was parenting.The house still smelled like antiseptic and her lavender lotion when we buried her.

When we walked into the living room, everything was exactly the same. Mom’s coat still hung by the door. Her slippers were under the couch. The flowers from the funeral were gone, but the space they left felt permanent.My aunt Laura was sitting next to my dad. Mom’s younger sister. She looked nervous. Hands folded. Knees pressed together. Eyes red like she’d been crying, but not recently.“I want to be honest with you both,” Dad finally said. “I don’t want secrets.”That should have been my first warning.Laura reached for his hand. He let her.“I’ve found someone,” Dad said. “And I didn’t expect it. I wasn’t looking for it.”Robert frowned. “What are you talking about?”