Looking Everywhere But The Grave
Eight years after my death, Donovan Blackwood ran into our son, Toby, selling handmade crafts in the cold November rain of Seattle's Pike Place Market.
In the incessant drizzle, our son's small face was pale, damp, and cold, his hands chapped raw by the biting wind.
Fury surged through him. He yanked Toby closer, brushing the clinging rain from his worn-out coat.
"Where is your mother? How could she leave you out here alone in this god-awful weather while she’s off living it up? I've never seen such an irresponsible mother!"
Toby, having no memory of this man, replied timidly, "My mom's not here anymore... Sir, would you like to buy a craft? I can give you a discount."
Blinded by rage, the deeper meaning of his son's words completely escaped him. He let out a harsh, furious laugh.
"What, is she still holding a grudge? Is she deliberately tormenting our son to get back at me? Fine. You don't have to call her your mother anymore! Come with me. I'm taking you home!"
Toby struggled to pull away. "I don't know you, and you can't talk about my mom like that! If you touch me again, I'll scream for help!"
Donovan lost control and roared, "I am your father! Your biological father!"
"Is this how Hazel raised you? To not even recognize your own father? How long is she going to hold this grudge? Does she plan on taking it to her grave?"
My soul drifted nearby. I reached out, trying to push my son away, but my hand passed straight through his small body.
A bitter smile touched my lips.
Donovan, I'm not holding a grudge against you.
I'm just... already dead.