I didn't see him that morning.
The sun was already up, burning through the morning haze when I stepped out of the guesthouse. Dalia leaned against the post, arms crossed tight. She didn't say anything, but her eyes scanned me head to toe like she was measuring my stability. Deon stood behind her, shifting from foot to foot with his jacket half-slipped on. Cylan kept close to the tree line, pacing as he listened to the chatter.
No stylists. No powder, no curling irons, no whispered plans to soften my look. Not today. Not for this. I didn't want to be made up for my father's memorial. I wanted to look like me. The version he knew. The one who snuck him extra bread rolls at dinner like I was on a mission with him. The one who sat on his shoulders during parade days. Just as the statue showe
