At my dad’s funeral, my brother said, «She’s just here for the money — dad’s going to cut her off.» Everyone watched the lawyer enter, holding a USB. My dad’s face appeared on the screen and said three words…

I didn’t know what I was walking into, but I knew this. If there was anything left to be said, I needed to hear it. So I folded the letter, packed my bags, and got ready to return to the place I swore I’d never see again.

The chapel was smaller than I remembered, wooden beams overhead, stained glass muted by a gray Charleston sky. It should have felt sacred, but the air inside was heavy, sour with old perfume and even older resentment. I stepped through the double, doors with Caleb beside me, his small hand tucked tight into mine.

Heads turned before we’d made it halfway down the aisle. Whispers flared like sparks. Some didn’t bother hiding their surprise.

Others just stared like they were watching a ghost. And then I saw them. Lindsay and Mark stood near the front, black clothes tailored to perfection, grief applied like makeup, just enough to be noticed, not enough to smear.

Lindsay’s eyes locked on mine first, a flicker of disbelief. Then her lips curved, slow and sharp. Well, well, she said under her breath, loud enough for the pews around her to catch every word.

Guess the prodigal daughter thinks there’s money left. Mark let out a quiet chuckle, but his eyes didn’t hold humor. Only judgment, the same kind I grew up with.

I didn’t answer. I just kept walking, eyes forward, spine straight, even though everything in me wanted to turn around and bolt. I found a seat at the far end of the last pew, back row, as far from them as I could get.

I didn’t come for them. I didn’t come for drama. I came to say goodbye.

Caleb slid in beside me, clutching my hand tighter. I could feel his fingers trembling. I leaned down slightly, whispered, it’s okay, baby.

We’re just here to sit. But I knew it wasn’t okay. Not really.

From up front, the preacher cleared his throat. The service began. Prayers, a few, shaky eulogies, the kind of polite mourning that sounds rehearsed, hollow.

My name wasn’t mentioned once. No one even acknowledged I was his daughter. They skipped from childhood memories straight to Lindsay’s tireless care, Mark’s business trips home to help manage things.

The narrative was neat, tidy, edited. My father had died the way he lived, with a story that left me out. Caleb leaned his head against my shoulder, quiet and still.

I stared ahead, but my ears burned with every sideways glance, every snicker hidden behind a tissue. I wasn’t crying, but not because I didn’t want to. I’d just done all my crying years ago.

When the service ended, people began to file out. A few walked past me without a glance. One older cousin offered a stiff nod, then looked away.

Lindsay brushed past like I didn’t exist. Mark followed, stopping just long enough to look me in the eye. Didn’t think you had the guts to show up, he murmured.

I met his gaze without flinching. Neither did I, he smirked. Don’t get comfortable.

It’s not your story anymore. He turned and walked off, and I sat frozen in that pew, Caleb’s head still resting against me, my hand wrapped around his like it was the only real thing in the room. They didn’t know I wasn’t there to be in the story…