The first breath of freedom didn’t taste like liberty. It tasted like diesel fumes, bitter coffee, and the metallic tang of a bus station at dawn—a flavor that suggested the world had moved on without bothering to pause for me. I walked out of the heavy iron gate clutching a clear plastic bag that contained the sum total of my existence: two flannel shirts, a paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with the spine broken, and the kind of heavy silence you accumulate after three years of being told your voice is irrelevant.
But as I stepped onto the cracked pavement, I wasn’t thinking about the past. I wasn’t thinking about the cell, the noise, or the injustice.
I was thinking about one thing.
Every night inside, I had constructed him in my mind, placing him in the same spot: sitting in his worn leather armchair by the bay window, the warm yellow light from the porch lamp washing over the deep lines of his face. In my head, he was always waiting. Always alive. Always holding onto the version of me that existed before the courts, before the headlines, before the world decided Eli Vance was a criminal.
I didn’t stop to eat at the diner across the street, though my stomach was a hollow pit. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t even check the crumpled paper with the reentry office address.
I went straight home.
Or what I thought was home.
The bus dropped me three blocks away. I ran the last stretch, my lungs burning, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, trying to outrun the lost years. The street looked mostly the same—the same cracked sidewalks where I’d learned to skate, the same ancient maple tree leaning precariously over the corner. But as I got closer, the details started to blur into something wrong.
The porch railing was still there, but the peeling white paint was gone, replaced by a fresh coat of slate blue. The overgrown flower beds my father loved were manicured, filled with unfamiliar shrubs. New cars filled the driveway—a sleek sedan and an SUV—shiny and alien, like the house had been colonized by a life I’d never been invited into.
I slowed down, my boots scuffing the pavement.
Still, I walked up the steps.
The front door was no longer the dull navy my father had picked because “it hides the dirt best.” Now it was an expensive-looking charcoal gray with a brass knocker. And where the welcome mat used to be—plain brown, always crooked—there was a fancy coir mat with clean, scripted lettering:
HOME SWEET HOME
I knocked anyway.
The door opened, and the warmth I’d imagined—the smell of old books and sawdust—didn’t come rushing out.
Linda stood there.
My stepmother.
Her hair was styled in a rigid bob, like she’d just come back from a salon. Her silk blouse looked crisp, expensive. And her eyes—those sharp, measured eyes—scanned me from head to toe like I was a delivery that had arrived at the wrong address.
For one second, I thought she might flinch. Or soften. Or at least look surprised to see the stepson she hadn’t visited once.
Instead, her expression stayed flat, a mask of indifference.
“You’re out,” she said, her tone devoid of emotion, as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, rusty and too loud in the quiet morning air.
Linda’s mouth tightened, a small purse of annoyance.
Then she said it. Calmly. Coldly.
“Your father was buried a year ago.”
The words didn’t land right. They hovered in the air, abstract and nonsensical.
Buried. A year ago.
My mind tried to reject it, to push it away like a bad dream. I waited for the punchline. The correction. The cruel joke.
But Linda didn’t blink.
“We live here now,” she added, gesturing vaguely behind her. “So… you should go.”
My throat went dry, as if I’d swallowed a handful of dust.
“I—” I tried again, my voice cracking. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Linda’s lips curved slightly. It wasn’t a smile—it was satisfaction.
“You were in prison, Eli,” she said. “What were we supposed to do? Send you a sympathy card?”
Behind her, the hallway looked alien. Different pictures on the walls—landscapes instead of family photos. Different furniture visible beyond the entryway. None of my father’s things. No hunting coat hung by the door. No scuffed work boots. No familiar smell of cedar and coffee and the lemon cleaner he used on weekends.
It was like my father had been erased.
And Linda was standing in the doorway, holding the eraser.
“I need to see him,” I said, desperation clawing at my chest. “I need to go to his room.”
“There’s nothing to see,” she replied, stepping back to close the door. “It’s over.”
Then, before I could force another word out, she shut it.
Not slammed.
Just closed—slow, deliberate—like she was ending a conversation she’d been tired of for a long time. The click of the deadbolt sliding into place was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
I stood there staring at the charcoal gray wood, my hand still raised, my body unable to process the new reality.
A year.
My father had been dead for a year.
And I was finding out on a porch like a stranger.
I didn’t remember walking away. I only remember the street tilting slightly, like the whole neighborhood had shifted on its foundation. I walked until my legs hurt, until my mind stopped trying to make the sentence “your father was buried a year ago” sound less final.
Eventually, I ended up at the only place that made sense.
The cemetery.
The cemetery sat behind a row of tall, brooding pines, the kind that always look serious, like sentinels guarding the boundary between the living and the dead. A wrought-iron gate creaked a mournful protest when I pushed it open.
I didn’t have flowers. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed a marker. A stone. Proof that he had existed, and proof that he was gone.
I walked toward the small office building, intending to ask for the plot number, but a voice stopped me before I got far.
Not politely. Not carefully.
I knocked like a son who had been counting down 1,095 days. Like someone who still believed he had a right to be there.
