Chapter 98: relatively centered

The week after my father’s birthday passed in a haze. He had celebrated quietly, insisting that it was just another day, but the sparkle in his eyes, the gentle humor, the way he held each of us close, all felt like a farewell wrapped in love. We didn’t say it aloud, not yet, but there was an unspoken understanding: the days ahead were fragile.

A week later, just as dawn broke with pale light spilling across the city, my father passed away. Peacefully, as he had always hoped, in the arms of family who loved him fiercely. Lucian held me close, whispering comforting words, though his own voice trembled. The girls, still young but perceptive, clung to us, sensing that life had shifted in ways they didn’t yet understand.

Preparing for the funeral was surreal. We wanted it to reflect who he was: tender, strong, deeply present in the small moments that mattered. There was no grandeur—just family, love, and remembrance. Cassian insisted on taking charge of flowers, arranging them with chaotic artistry, while Adrian begrudgingly set up chairs and ensured everything was orderly. Lucian and I worked together on the tribute, carefully selecting words that could convey both grief and gratitude.

When the day came, the church smelled faintly of lilies and candles. The girls sat quietly, wrapped in blankets, clutching small mementos my father had given them over the years—tiny drawings, a notebook, a hand-carved wooden horse. Aria leaned against my arm, Arianna held Lucian’s hand tightly, and Arian sat upright, trying to appear composed, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

When it was time for the reading of the tribute, I stepped forward first. My voice shook, but I carried on, each word a lifeline, each sentence an offering to his memory.

“My father was a man of quiet strength. He loved fiercely, even when life didn’t make it easy. He gave us laughter, guidance, and countless moments that we will carry in our hearts forever. He showed us that family is everything and that love—love is what endures when everything else fades. Today, we say goodbye, but we also celebrate a life lived with dignity, warmth, and an unwavering heart. Thank you, Dad, for everything. We love you.”

Tears fell freely as I handed the microphone to Lucian. His voice, steady but breaking at times, followed with his own words:

“He was a father, a grandfather, a friend, and a constant presence in our lives. His guidance shaped who we are today, and his love will continue to guide us. He believed in joy, even in the smallest things, and we will honor him by living fully, by loving fully, and by never forgetting the lessons he taught us.”

Then the girls were invited to speak. Aria, barely able to hold back tears, whispered, “Grandpa… I love you,” and left it at that, letting her hug speak for her. Arianna described, in her own sweet, detailed way, the games they had played, the stories he had read, the sketches he had admired. Arian, logical as ever but vulnerable in her small voice, said, “I’ll remember your strategies, Grandpa… and I’ll always try to make you proud.”

It was unbearably sad. Every word, every tear, every sigh felt like a wound pressed open. But there was also a profound beauty in the shared love of a family that refused to let grief define them.

After the service, as we walked back to the house, the girls held our hands tightly. Aria skipped ahead and then ran back to hug my leg. “Mommy… he wants us to be happy, right?”

I knelt down, holding her small face in my hands. “Yes, baby. That’s exactly what he wanted. He wants us to carry on, to laugh, to play, to love.”

Arianna chimed in, “Then we will. We’ll live for him, too.”

Arian, ever precise, said quietly, “We honor him by remembering, but also by moving forward. We continue. That’s what he would want.”

And that’s what we did.

The days that followed were bittersweet. We cried together, laughed through tears, and slowly, the weight of loss became intertwined with gratitude for the time we had. Lucian and I leaned on each other, guiding the girls through the routines of life while carving moments to celebrate their grandfather’s legacy. We baked the cookies he loved, told the stories he once narrated, and spent evenings on the porch, looking at the stars, sharing memories of him, and letting his love linger in every quiet corner.

Even in heartbreak, the house was filled with life. Cassian continued his chaos with more determination, Adrian softened in small, rare ways, and the girls found joy in remembering their grandfather with laughter and love. His legacy wasn’t just a memory—it was a blueprint for resilience, for kindness, for living fully despite loss.

One night, after the girls had fallen asleep, Lucian and I sat in the dim light of the living room. I rested my head on his shoulder, thinking of my father and the life he had shaped for us. “He wanted us to be happy,” I whispered.

Lucian kissed my hair gently. “And we will be. We’ll honor him every day, in every laugh, every hug, every moment we share. That’s how he’ll live on.”

The weight of grief was still there, a shadow that stretched across our days, but it had softened into something else: a reminder of love, of connection, and of the fleeting, beautiful nature of life. And for the first time in weeks, I felt that even in sorrow, we could find joy again.

The legacy of my father wasn’t only in the stories we told or the tears we shed—it was in the smiles of his grandchildren, the warmth of family dinners, the quiet acts of love that filled the space he left behind.

And in that, he would always live on.