Years later, I still feel Dad’s presence in quiet moments. When Mom’s laughter fills the kitchen or her eyes cloud with old grief, I hear his voice again: “Don’t ever leave Mom alone.” I kept that promise, staying close through her joys and struggles. Sometimes, late at night, I’d sense him—a fleeting warmth, like his hand on my shoulder. Once, while sorting his old photos, a breeze
flipped the album to a picture of us playing on that same bedroom floor. Mom swears no windows were open. I don’t need explanations anymore. His love lingers, guiding me to care for her, just as he asked that day.
