Seven Years Late To His Wifes Funeral

Summary

Seven years after my parents’ divorce, I earned my acceptance letter to The Westwood Institute.

At the freshman orientation ceremony, I saw him: Pierce Harrison, attending as a major investment representative.

My father.

He froze for a fraction of a second when he saw me, his voice hesitant as he spoke: “Aubrey, is your mother… is she doing well?”

I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and turned to walk away.

He quickly grabbed my arm. “Tell your mother to call me. We should all have dinner together.”

My eyes instantly welled up. I yanked my arm away.

How utterly ridiculous.