Rain was still falling in thin, cold sheets the day we buried Harold. The sky looked just as unforgiving as the man we were laying to rest. I kept one hand on my son’s shoulder, the other gripping a flimsy umbrella that did little to stop the water soaking through my coat. I can’t say I felt grief. Harold had never made room for me in his life, and after Michael died, he made sure the distance between us stayed permanent. But for my son, Kiran, the loss was real. Harold had let him in when he shut everyone else out…..CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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