Chapter 15
Carl died when I was twenty-seven.
Liver failure.
Brandon told me.
His voice was flat.
“I don’t know what to feel.”
“Neither do I.”
“Are you relieved?”
I stared at the hotel wall.
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“Me too.”
Then he cried.
I did not attend the funeral.
Brandon did.
For himself, not for Carl.
Mom did not go either.
She spent that afternoon with me on video call, making soup and pretending she was not sad.
“Are you grieving him?” I asked.
She paused.
“I’m grieving the years I gave him.”
That made sense.
After Carl died, something loosened in all of us.
Not joy.
Space.
Brandon and I met for coffee a month later.
He worked as a youth pitching coach now.
“I never let parents yell at kids,” he said.
“I believe that.”
He smiled sadly.
May you like
“I learned from the worst.”
Sometimes the worst thing becomes a warning sign if you let it.
