I still remember the cold weight of the coffee mug that morning. It wasn’t warm anymore, but I gripped it anyway, as if the familiar shape could anchor me. The house felt empty, hollow without my father’s quiet presence. I scrolled through old photos on my phone—one of him laughing, arm draped over my shoulders, the Shelby gleaming behind us. My stepmom, Karen, wasn’t in any of them.
A car horn jolted me from the memory. My phone lit up: Karen calling.
“Hazel… I can’t come today. I just can’t.”
Her voice was fragile.
“It’s Dad’s funeral,” I said quietly. “I can pick you up.”
“I know,” she whispered. “The doctor said stress could make things worse. Can you… handle everything?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.”
Driving Dad’s Legacy
Later, I arrived at the church behind the wheel of Dad’s Shelby. My own car had broken down, so this felt like both an honor and a strange responsibility. Aunt Lucy hurried toward me, her eyes lighting up.
“Oh, Hazel, your father would have loved seeing it here today.”
“I figured it deserved to be here,” I replied with a faint smile.
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