I stood there staring at a collection of luxury items owned by a man with no income and felt something old and cold settle in my chest.
I took over the funeral arrangements.
I called the funeral home, wrote the obituary, contacted relatives, arranged flowers, confirmed catering, and made sure the programs were printed with the right photo—the one of Dad from ten years earlier, before his face began to look permanently worn out.
Marcus handled appearances.
Whenever neighbors arrived with casseroles or condolences, he appeared in doorways wearing grief like a tailored suit—perfectly measured, perfectly timed.
Behind closed doors, though, something else was happening.
I kept overhearing fragments of whispered conversations between him and Mom that stopped the second I entered the room. Words like real estate, quickly, and after the service.
On the fourth night, I passed the kitchen and heard Marcus on the phone.
“I know, I know,” he said, his voice tight with panic. “Just give me until after this week. I’ll have it.”
He saw me and hung up immediately.
“Work stuff,” he said.
He hadn’t worked in eight months.