"I'm done," Ethan muttered, pushing his plate aside. "Now tell me."
Richard sighed, the sound heavy with years. "It all started seven years ago. When your mother died."
Ethan froze, his hand still on the plate. "That night," he whispered.
"That night," his father confirmed.
Seven Years Earlier
The auditorium lights dimmed as the last graduate crossed the stage.
Ethan stood among his classmates, seventeen and electric with possibility, his arms full of awards and certificates that crinkled against his graduation gown.
He spotted them immediately—his parents waiting by the doors.
His father in his work suit, tie loosened.
His mother in her yellow dress, the one she saved for special occasions.
"Dad! Look!" Ethan jogged over, nearly dropping his collection of achievements. "I got the English award. And look—honorable mention for the art project."
