Page 2 of Before We Were

Time has warped since the funeral this morning. Somehow, two hours feel like two lifetimes, while last week – the last time I heard Dad's laugh – passed in the blink of an eye. The only reason I know what day it is?

It's the day before my sixteenth birthday.

And now, it's also the day I said goodbye to dad forever.

Hugs come at me like waves, each one threatening to pull me under. The scent of perfume, aftershave, and sympathy surrounds me, a suffocating cloud of forced affection. The walls creep closer, the air growing thinner with each "I'm so sorry for your loss."

After two days of pretending I'm okay, I feel like a helium balloon cut loose from its string, floating away into nothingness.

Detached. Untethered. Lost.

Is this how every moment will feel now?

Trapped and numb?

My face aches from wearing this mask of composure, from murmuring polite thanks to people whose names blur together in my grief-addled mind.

It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.

I'm in purgatory.

The living room of our small Boston home has become a sea of mourners, black-clad figures packed shoulder-to-shoulder like a murder of crows. Dad would've cracked a joke about it – something about penguins at a funeral. I can almost hear his laugh, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners. The ghost of that sound makes my chest ache.

People get weird at funerals, hovering between awkward sympathy and desperate attempts at comfort. I just wish they'd say less. A simple nod would be better than the endless echoes of empty words reminding me he's gone.

Half the people here, I don't even know.

And I don't care to.

My eyes find Mom across the room, drawn to her like a compass finding north. Despite her puffy eyes and the exhaustion etched in the lines around her mouth, she's poised – a picture of quiet strength. Her black dress wraps around her like armor, elegant yet protective. She's beautiful, even in grief. Her dark hair is pinned back, soft curls falling loose in a way that looks effortless, but I know it took her three tries to get right this morning. I watched her hands shake as she fixed it, over and over, like getting her hair perfect could somehow make this day bearable.

I wish I could be like that.

Instead, I cling to the edges of the room, pressing my back against the cool wall, hoping no one sees me, talks to me, or—God forbid—tries to hug me again. Each embrace feels like sandpaper against my raw nerves.

By Mom's side is Lydia Sullivan, Dad's"other wife"as he used to joke. His voice echoes in my memory:"Some men fear their wives having best friends. Me? I got a two-for-one deal with my family."She's been a permanent fixture in our lives since Mom and Dad met.

Katherine Holt and Lydia Murphy were a packaged deal, inseparable from the start. Dad had known what he was signing up for when he proposed.

Since Dad's passing, Lydia has been an anchor. She's handled everything—the endless phone calls, funeral arrangements, even making sure we eat. It drives Mom crazy, this fierce efficiency born of love, but Lydia doesn't expect gratitude. She loved Dad like a brother, their bond forged through years of shared holidays and inside jokes.

When Mom called to tell her the news, Lydia was on the first flight from New York. She hasn't left Mom's side since, just like when they were teenagers.

For that, I'm grateful.

My gaze shifts to Ollie, my brother, hovering near the kitchen island. Ollie turns eighteen at the end of this year but somehow today he looks like an old soul and a kid at the same time. Most days, I'm the responsible one, while Ollie plays the part of a kid trapped in a growing athlete's body.

But now? Now he wields charm and humor like armor, each joke a shield against the pain I see flickering behind his eyes. He's been like that for as long as I can remember—quick with a laugh, never filtering his thoughts. The words tumble out of him like they can't wait to be heard, but never with cruelty. His humor brings light, even when it's self-deprecating.

It's his way of making everything seem okay, of holding our world together with duct tape and punchlines. But behind that easy smile, he feels everything with an intensity that scares me. He feels it all at once, and even now, on this impossible day, he's trying to make others laugh. I worry about him as much as he worries about me.

Dad was his hero, his compass, and losing him at seventeen is a wound Ollie won't talk about, maybe because he thinks it'll break me to see him break.

But I can handle it.

I can handle anything but this suffocating silence between us.

He's been carrying more weight than any teenager should. His broad shoulders, usually relaxed and confident, now bear the invisible burden of being the"man of the house"—a phrase I heard some well-meaning relative whisper earlier, making me want to scream.

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