He didn’t want me to defend him. He wanted them to keep talking. So I sat there while Vanessa and her husband Grant narrated a death that hadn’t happened, rolling straight past sorrow into logistics: locks being changed, the truck already “being evaluated,” my childhood bedroom reduced to boxes by the garage. When Grant laughed and told me I was “finally out of the family,” my father’s fingers tightened around his mug. He asked, very softly, to be “let in” to the call. And then the dead man spoke. “Interesting,” he said, into their sudden silence. “Tell me more about my funeral.” By the time he hung up, we knew someone had called his funeral home about prepaid arrangements, phoned his attorney about accessing “estate property in an emergency,” and even tried to hijack his phone number. It wasn’t grief. It was a pla… Continues…
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