hands clasped tightly in front of him, the familiar tremble in his fingers when he’s nervous. His eyes meet mine just for a second—just long enough for me to see the smile he tries to hide.
I freeze.
My father’s arm tightens around mine. “Keep walking,” he mutters under his breath, his tone stiff, rehearsed. Everyone is watching.
But something in my che
twists. It’s not nerves. It’s not fear. It’s grief, maybe. Or guilt.
Because Tim never missed a single piano recital. Not one parent-teacher night. He was the one who picked me up from sleepovers when I got scared. The one who built me a dollhouse from scratch, even though he had no clue what he was doing. The one who sat beside me on the bathroom floor
