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Margaret stood in the doorway, veil pushed back, face pale and sharp. She was seventy-one, but grief had aged her another decade overnight. Her hands trembled slightly around a cup of untouched tea.

Her father, Richard, sat in his recliner—the one Leo had bought him last Christmas, with the massage function and the cup holder. He was staring at the wall.

“I’m not going to pretend,” Elena said quietly. “I’m not going to come to Sunday dinners or pretend you didn’t say what you said. But I’m not going to let you rot in here, either. Leo wouldn’t want that. And honestly? Neither would I.”

After the service, the family gathered at the house—the same split-level ranch where Elena had learned to ride a bike, lost her virginity on the basement couch, and stopped speaking to her mother for six months after Margaret had called her poetry degree “a waste of God’s time.”