After My Father’s

was our CFO.

He had worked for Dad for nine years.

He had sat two rows behind me at the funeral and cried into a handkerchief.

My mouth went dry. “You went to Daniel today?”

“No,” Miles said. “I went to him weeks ago.”

Weeks.

Before Dad died.

While I was sleeping in a chair beside my father’s hospital bed, rubbing lotion into his hands because the chemo made continue reading …