Call it what you want.

'What happened to Philip Stevens?'

In that heart-wrenching moment, news of my father's demise echoed through my being, and I found myself yearning to be nothing more than a fleeting golden fish. I'd heard whispers that its memory spanned a mere three seconds – a blissful ignorance that I wished to embrace. Perhaps, confined to the walls of a fishbowl, I could drown out the abrupt cruelty of reality.

Just as life seemed to unfold with the promise of shared victories, my father was snatched away. From the innocence of childhood to the autonomy of womanhood, I envisioned him witnessing every step. Yet, an unforeseen affliction seized him in an instant. The ache deepened when I pondered the unfulfilled milestones – creating a family, presenting him with grandchildren. His absence left a void, a void where the once pure and genuine paternal love should reside. What pierced the soul most was the question echoing in the silence: With him gone, to whom could I pour out my heart about the lovers destined to shatter it even further?

Since our mother Mary was long gone from the Amely family's celebration, we returned home to offer her solace. Upon our arrival, we discovered our home teeming with unfamiliar faces—some in tears, others shocked, and a few expressing joys despite the looming challenges in the absence of a patriarch who cherished his family. This was the stark reality that contradicted the facade of showcasing only the positive aspects of life. Our dwelling echoed with a cacophony of sorrow and anguish, regrets haunting those who had unresolved issues with him. The air was thick with unspoken questions, wondering why amends weren't made sooner. Now, it was too late. My siblings and I were ushered into the house where our mother lay on a makeshift bed in the living room. The once radiant eyes of a happy Mary, deeply in love with her husband, were now rare, replaced by red and swollen orbs—a testament to how pain transforms a person, from joy to emptiness and rage.

In my thirteen years, I had never encountered the sad preparations of a funeral. Seeking confirmation, I ventured into my parents' room. Among black plastic bags meant for waste, I found Philip's clothes. A void enveloped me, confirming his irreversible departure. To ensure the harsh reality, I approached my grandmother and inquired about my father's whereabouts. She held me close and uttered a feeble "sorry." The weight of that word underestimated the heartache it carried; silence would have been more merciful if sincerity was lacking. The cruelest aspect of this ordeal was the denial of answers as a child, shielded from the truth under the guise of protection. I couldn't comprehend why parents chose to shelter us with an absurd philosophy, withholding the painful reality. I questioned whether we had unintentionally pushed him away and if we were somehow at fault in this bewildering situation.

In the shadows of my childhood, a lingering wound festered, concealing the truth behind my father's departure. Whispers, vague and elusive, danced in the air, each person crafting their version of reality. We, the bereaved, embarked on an emotional journey, navigating the tumultuous path leading to the impending burial day.

The funeral proceedings unfolded as a rollercoaster, with obstinate relatives asserting exclusive ownership of our father, relegating our mother Mary to the sidelines. The blatant injustice became a bitter pill to swallow. Despite her affection for her in-laws, Mary discerned the deceit and selfishness that veiled their intentions. Love, it seemed, could blind one to the flaws within a seemingly perfect family.

Amidst the preparations, an influx of visitors intensified, saturating our home with condolences. The British funeral, a solemn affair, carried an air of dignity. Amidst the orchestrated chaos, three unfamiliar yet eerily familiar faces emerged—resembling lost kin among the mourners. They, resembling my father and Aunt Rosemary, ventured towards the elders' house, a forbidden sanctuary for my siblings and me.

As young as I was, I refused to be blinded by naivety. The forbidden territory revealed itself as the dwelling of our long-forgotten siblings—ignored by our father for reasons unknown. How could a man, responsible for three different seeds in three different fields, live with such disregard for his own blood? Guilt seemed absent from his conscience, as if the act of sowing the seeds and the act of neglecting their growth were disconnected events.

Sitting on the sinking sofa, I grappled with the revelation that we were the privileged ones, receiving love and provision while our paternal half-siblings languished in obscurity. The sorrowful truth unfolded as we pondered whether we were any different from the family he chose to ignore. The ache of realizing that love was unevenly distributed, that some were embraced while others were left to seek solace only in the shadows of his final farewell, resonated deeply. 

In the poignant contemplation of his life's aftermath, I couldn't shake off the haunting question: Are we any different from the family he choose to leave behind? The complexities of love unfolded in the chapters of his legacy, leaving behind a legacy of unspoken pain and the unsettling reality that love, sometimes, is as flawed as the families it binds.

In the complex tapestry of her married life, she found herself entangled in a web of absurdity, navigating through the relentless storm of nonsense that seemed to persistently swirl around her. Consider for a moment the children who, through no fault of their own, were denied the warmth of a father's love. She, like our beloved mother, embraced them with open arms, weaving them seamlessly into the fabric of her life.

Yet, behind the facade of marital bliss, a hidden truth cast a shadow over the years invested in what was supposed to be a sacred union. Unbeknownst to her, the children were born outside the sanctity of wedlock, a revelation that shattered the illusion of a holy matrimony. Uterine siblings, known to our father's family all along, yet concealed like a well-guarded secret.

The very concept of a 'holy matrimony' now seemed like a cruel irony, a notion she had never fathomed but had unwillingly become a participant in. Loyalty, a virtue expected from a man's family, proved to be a double-edged sword, posing a constant threat to the well-being of the woman entwined in the intricate dance of family dynamics. The irony loomed large – a union meant to be sacred had become a battleground where loyalty to a man jeopardized the woman at every turn.

At long last, we, as siblings, found ourselves face to face. Despite a few minor tensions, the undeniable truth lay before us, urging acceptance. They had known of our existence for quite some time, harboring a certain envy for the nourishment we received. It was now our turn, the Stevens, to extend an olive branch and reconcile at the communal table.

The anticipated day of burial arrived, not without its fair share of disagreements during the preparations. Surprisingly, the funeral drew an unexpectedly large crowd, a testament to the extensive fan base our father had amassed. People traveled from far and wide to bid a final farewell to the legendary blacksmith who, unbeknownst to many, had also left behind three children.

In a regal mahogany casket, he was gently lowered into the ground, marking a moment both precious and sorrowful, acknowledging the finality of never seeing him again. Yet, amidst the melancholy, a poignant beauty emerged. Below the earth's surface, he lay adorned with a crown of flowers, the grasses gently swaying overhead—a visual testament to the tranquility he had found. Maybe in another universe, just maybe, my uterine siblings might share a connection with his life as well.

Rest in peace, Philip Stevens.