They say you don't remember the day your life changes—only the moment it splits in half. For me, it was the echo of gunshots and the silence that followed.
I was Sixteen. My brother Ethan was crying in the next room. My mother was screaming into a phone. And my father—Adonis Johnson—was already gone before I could even ask why.
That night, the world shrank. It became just the three of us. No more Sunday breakfasts with Dad playing old school R&B, no more jokes over cheap takeout, no more warmth in the house. Just bills, silence, and the kind of pain that follows you even when you sleep.
They buried my father in a black suit. I buried him in my chest.
The next morning, the house felt like a ghost had taken residence in every corner. The sun crawled through the blinds, but even it seemed to hesitate before touching the empty space where Dad used to sit at the kitchen table.
Mom was already up, but she wasn't really there. She was just moving, like a body going through motions. I watched her try to make coffee with shaking hands, the clink of the mug too loud in the silence. Ethan wasn't awake yet, but I knew the second he opened his eyes, he'd ask where Dad was. I didn't know what to say.
"Isaiah," Mom's voice cracked as she turned to face me, her face drawn and pale. "We need to talk about... about what's next."
I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to hear it. But I could see the weight in her eyes—the same weight that had been pressing down on me since last night. I couldn't escape it. None of us could.
"Okay," I said, the word thick in my throat, feeling like I was choking on it.
She looked away, staring out the window at the cracked sidewalk, the broken world outside. She wasn't talking about finances, not yet, but I knew it was coming. The bills, the debts, the things Dad had been hiding from us.
"I'm gonna have to start looking for something new," she said softly, like she wasn't sure if it was for my benefit or hers.
I nodded, but it felt like a lie. We both knew the truth: She'd been working at the diner for years, barely scraping by, and now with Dad gone, everything felt heavier. We couldn't afford any more rent increases, any more overdue notices, any more silence. Nothing would be the same. Not with him gone.
A soft knock at the door startled us both. I froze, the breath in my chest hanging still, like I knew what was coming before I even heard the voice on the other side.
"Ms. Reyes?" It was the officer's voice from last night. He sounded tired.
Mom's eyes fluttered closed, her hand gripping the edge of the counter like she was afraid of being swept away.
"I'll get it," I said quietly, but the words were harder to say than I wanted. I didn't want to be the one to face this—didn't want to see the pity in the cop's eyes. But someone had to.
I opened the door, and there he was: the same officer from last night, standing tall in his uniform, his face drawn with regret. He handed me a small plastic bag.
"This is your father's wallet," he said, his voice softer now, as if he didn't know how else to say it. "We... found it at the scene."
I stared at the bag. It felt like I was holding a piece of him—a part of my dad that wouldn't come back, something small and final. I wanted to tell him to take it back, to somehow bring him back. But I didn't.
I took the bag, my hand trembling. "Thank you."
The officer nodded, and there was a long, heavy silence between us. Finally, he turned to leave.
As the door closed, I stood there, staring down at the wallet. My mind screamed at me, at the unfairness of it all. Dad was gone. And all that was left was a damn wallet full of receipts, a few crumpled bills, and the feeling of his absence.
The morning light crept in through the cracked blinds, casting long shadows across the living room floor. The house was quiet, but not peaceful—more like the kind of silence that holds its breath.
I sat on the couch, staring at the floor, trying to find something to hold on to. Something solid. But everything felt hollow.
Behind me, I heard the creak of a bedroom door and slow footsteps. Ethan had just woken up.
He stood in the hallway for a second, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing one of Dad's old shirts that was too big on him. His hair was messy, and his face looked pale, still marked by sleep but quickly clouding with something heavier.
"Isaiah?" he said softly.
I looked up. "Yeah?"
He stepped into the room slowly, like the floor might crack under him. "Is it... real? What happened?"
I nodded, the weight of it pressing into my chest again. "Yeah," I said. "It's real."
He didn't say anything for a moment. His eyes dropped to the floor, and his hands were fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
"I had a dream last night that he came back," Ethan whispered. "He walked through the door like nothing ever happened. He laughed. Said we were gonna go get breakfast like we used to."
My stomach twisted. I didn't know what hurt more—hearing that or knowing the dream would fade and reality would hit him again.
He looked at me, eyes glassy now. "Is everything gonna be okay?"
His voice cracked at the end, and just like that, I saw the little brother I used to protect—the one who still looked up to me like I had all the answers.
But I didn't. Not anymore.