When my father died, the silence that followed was heavier than the funeral itself.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of grief people talk about. It was awkward. Unsettling. Filled with things no one said and questions no one dared to ask. At the reading of the will, the room felt tense in a way I still struggle to describe.

My father had left almost nothing of material value to my stepmother.

A murmur passed through the room. Someone coughed. A distant relative let out a nervous laugh, as if this confirmed what they had always believed—that she had never truly belonged, that her place in the family had been temporary.

She didn’t react.

She stood there quietly, hands folded, eyes steady. No anger. No defense. No attempt to explain herself. That composure unsettled me more than any outburst would have.

When everyone left, it became painfully clear she had nowhere to go.

My siblings pulled me aside.