He slumbered during our days at school and throughout our fatherless evenings, never leaving his room. His absence swelled into years.
On her deathbed, Mom took my hand. “There’s something I must confess. Your dad passed years ago. I couldn’t afford to bury him, so I mummified him and kept him upstairs.”
“What?” I cried, horrified. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”
“Because,” she said sadly, “I knew it would upset you, and because . . . he comes with the house.”