“It’s not pretty,” Mom warned me, careful to stand between me and the family room. “He…” She paused, and I could see her training as a nurse kick in. “He fell when he went. He didn’t feel anything.”

I nodded, not sure what to expect – Dad in his winter bathrobe despite the hot evening because he was always cold, or his usual button-down shirt and black slacks, his list of heart meds and tube of nitro in the front pocket next to his favorite black pen. Mom stepped aside, and I stared blankly at my father’s body. Somehow, seeing him there made the pain both more real and more bearable, because I wasn’t fighting my imagination anymore.

It wasn’t pretty – a pool of blood surrounded his head in a crimson halo, but Mom was right – it had been quick, and he lay with his hands resting on his stomach just as he’d landed, eyes closed. He had on his shirt and slacks, the white slip of paper listing medication peeking out from the front pocket.

I looked away as I sank down onto the couch. “Why is there a cop?”