Inheritance of deceit

I knew something was wrong the moment I heard Papa cough. Not a normal cough - the kind that makes your stomach drop. The kind that changes everything. I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard it, and I dropped my favorite mug. It shattered on the floor, but I barely noticed. The sound of breaking ceramic mixed with his coughing echoed through our marble halls, a symphony of approaching doom. I stood there, coffee seeping into my socks, frozen in that moment between normal life and whatever was coming next. "Nuella," he called out the next morning. His voice was different - raspy, weak. Not the strong voice that used to read me bedtime stories, not the voice that had guided me through every major decision in my life. "Come here for a minute." The walk to his study felt longer than usual. Each step on the polished hardwood floors brought me closer to a truth I didn't want to face. Family photos lined the hallway - memories of better times, when Mom was alive, before Anabella entered our lives with her designer perfumes and calculated smiles. I found him in his study, slumped in his leather chair. The morning sun hit his face, showing every new line, every shadow I'd been trying to ignore. His breakfast sat untouched, getting cold. The newspaper beside it was still folded - Papa never left his paper unread. Another sign I should have noticed sooner. "You need to eat, Papa," I said, trying to sound casual while my heart was racing. The room smelled like his cologne - the same one I'd given him for Christmas. The familiarity of that scent made my chest tight. How many more mornings would I get to smell it? He tried to smile. "Not hungry today, sweetheart." His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his reading glasses - the ones he didn't need because he wasn't reading anything. Before I could argue, Anabella appeared in her usual perfect outfit, looking like she'd stepped out of a magazine. My stepmother - always camera-ready, always cold. Her heels clicked against the floor like a countdown. Even in this moment, she looked more concerned about her appearance than my father's health. "Jacob," she said sweetly, "the doctor's here." Her voice carried that artificial sweetness that never quite reached her eyes. I gripped Papa's hand. "I'm coming with you." His skin felt paper-thin under my fingers, like he might disappear if I held on too tight. "No need-" Anabella started, but Papa cut her off. "My daughter comes with me." His voice was weak but firm. A ghost of his former authority, but enough to make Anabella step back. The diagnosis hit like a punch to the gut. Cancer. Terminal. Six months. The doctor kept talking, but those words echoed in my head like a broken record. I watched his lips move, forming words like "treatment options" and "palliative care," but all I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting down time we no longer had. That night, I heard them arguing through the walls. Papa begging Anabella to take care of me. Her promising she would. I knew she was lying - I'd heard that fake voice too many times before. The same voice she used when telling her society friends how much she loved being a stepmother. The same voice that covered up her true intentions like expensive wallpaper over crumbling walls. Things got worse fast. Papa got smaller, weaker. His green eyes - the ones I inherited - lost their spark. I spent every second I could with him, pretending everything was normal while watching him slip away. I memorized everything: the way he held his coffee cup, how he'd adjust his tie even in his pajamas, the sound of his breathing as he slept in his chair. The night he died, it was pouring rain. It wasn't the gentle kind of rain that lulls you to sleep - it was angry, violent, like the sky knew what was coming. I was reading to him - Dickens, his favorite - when his breathing changed. Just like that. No warning, no dramatic last words. Just a quiet "I love you" that he couldn't even finish. The book fell from my hands, marking our place forever in a story we'd never finish. I screamed. Not pretty crying like in movies - ugly, raw screaming that probably woke the whole house. Siren, my stepsister, appeared in her silk pajamas, looking annoyed, as if my grief was interrupting her beauty sleep. "Do you have to be so dramatic?" she asked, checking her phone. The blue light illuminated her face, making her look even more inhuman. Anabella was already making calls, planning the funeral before Papa's body was even cold. I sat there holding his hand until I couldn't anymore, until it felt like ice instead of the warm hands that used to push me on the swings. The hands that taught me to ride a bike, to tie my shoes, to be strong. Later, I found his letter in my copy of "Great Expectations." His handwriting was shaky, but the words were clear: "Remember who you are. Don't let them break you. They'll try, but you're stronger than they know." The paper was thin, like his skin had been near the end, but the words carried all the strength he had left. I looked in the mirror that night, seeing my green eyes - Papa's eyes - staring back. I made him a promise right there. I would survive whatever came next. I just didn't know how hard that would be. The house already felt different - colder, darker, like all the warmth had left with him. The letter is still hidden in my desk drawer. Sometimes I take it out just to see his handwriting, to remember how his voice sounded. But mostly, I keep it as a reminder. A reminder that the war for survival was just beginning. In this house of marble and secrets, I would need every ounce of strength he'd given me. And I wasn't going to lose.