I went to my estranged father’s funeral expecting closure. Instead, my grandmother’s cryptic warning sent me running to his house—where I found my half-siblings tearing through his study, desperate to find something before I did.
I hadn’t seen my father in years. He walked out on my mother and me when I was just a kid, leaving behind nothing but an absence that I had spent most of my life trying to ignore. As I grew older, I made a few attempts to reach out—calls, letters, the occasional message left unanswered—but all I ever got in return was silence.
When I heard he had died, I didn’t know what to feel. Sad? Angry? Relieved? Probably all of those at once.
Despite knowing it would be easier to just stay away, I still found myself at his funeral, sitting stiffly in a cold chapel pew, wondering why I had come.
The chapel was nearly silent, save for the soft, droning hum of the organ. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, a sweetness so overpowering that it made my stomach turn. I glanced down at the program in my hands, the name printed in bold letters across the top:
Robert Sr.
It was strange to see it written so plainly. Like he was just another man. Not the ghost who had haunted me for most of my life.
Nobody in the chapel cried. Nobody even seemed particularly sad. They just sat, expressionless, staring ahead like they were counting down the minutes until it was over.
And then there was something even stranger.
His other children—Robert Jr. and Barbara—weren’t there at all.
The kids he actually raised, the ones he chose to stay with, didn’t bother showing up.
I was still debating whether I should just leave when I felt it—a strong, bony hand gripping my arm.
I turned, startled, and found myself face-to-face with my grandmother, Estelle.
She was one of the few people from my father’s side who had ever acknowledged my existence. We had only met a few times over the years, but occasionally, she would send updates—little tidbits about my father and his new family that I pretended not to care about.
Now, she was looking at me intently, her sharp gaze locking onto mine. She leaned in close, her voice so quiet that I almost didn’t catch it.
“Look around, child,” she whispered. “Didn’t you notice? You shouldn’t be here. You need to go—to his house. Now.”
I blinked at her, confused. “What? Grandma, what are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed something into my palm—something cold and metallic.
A key.
I stared down at it, then back up at her.
“Trust me,” she said, her voice steady. “Go. Quickly.”
Then, just like that, she let go, straightened up, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
For a moment, I hesitated. Was she messing with me? Was she losing it?
But there was something in her eyes, something urgent, that I couldn’t shake.
So, I stood up and left.
A House of Secrets
The house was just as I remembered it—only grander.
The freshly painted white exterior gleamed in the afternoon sun. The perfectly manicured lawn looked almost too pristine, as though someone had been taking care of it meticulously.
It was nothing like the house I had once lived in as a child, the one my mother and I had been forced to leave when my father’s lawyer made it clear we weren’t welcome anymore.
And yet, here I was.
I stepped onto the porch, hands shaking slightly as I slid the key into the lock.
The door creaked open.
Inside, everything was too clean. The air smelled of lemon and lavender, like someone had recently scrubbed every inch of the place.
Then, I heard voices.
I froze.
The sound was coming from down the hall—from his study.
A place I was never allowed into as a child.
I moved closer, pressing myself against the wall, listening.
“This has to be it,” a man’s voice muttered.
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