When my dad died last spring, the world went painfully quiet. He was my constant after Mom passed when I was eight—the bad jokes, the pep talks, the certainty that I’d be okay. For nearly a decade, it was just us, until he married Carla. Carla was distant, sharp-edged. When Dad died, she didn’t cry. At the funeral, as my knees buckled, she whispered, “You’re embarrassing yourself. He’s gone.” Two weeks later, she began “clearing clutter,” tossing his suits, shoes—and his ties—into trash bags.
