I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13 Years and Found a Bag in the Attic with a Note for Me
They say time heals, but grief doesn’t keep a calendar. Thirteen years after my father died, I still found him everywhere—in the way the kettle hissed, in the slant of afternoon light, in the itch to call someone who would never pick up. He wasn’t just my dad; he was my entire world. My mother…