Wearing my late dad’s suit already felt wrong somehow. Then, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, I slipped my hand into the pocket and found something he’d been carrying during the last weeks of his life.
My dad died three months ago, and until last week, nobody had touched his closet.
My mom still keeps his side of the bedroom almost exactly the way he left it.
His ties are hanging on the little rack inside the closet door.
Even the half-empty bottle of cologne is still sitting on his dresser.
I think part of her just isn’t ready to change anything yet.
Honestly, neither am I.
Dad was only 50 when he died.
He’d been having trouble breathing for a while, but every doctor seemed to have a different theory. Infection. Inflammation. Allergies. Something autoimmune.
They kept running tests.
Then one morning, he got much worse.
A few days later, he was gone.
We never really got a clear explanation for what happened to his lungs.
Then this month, my company announced it was throwing a huge black-tie corporate event.
We never do things like this.
Normally, our “work events” involve pizza in a conference room and somebody bringing warm beer.
Apparently, someone higher up decided we needed to become classy overnight.
There was only one problem.
I barely own a suit.
I’m the kind of guy who changes from work clothes directly into sweatpants, and there was absolutely no chance I was spending hundreds of dollars on something I’d probably wear once.
Then I remembered Dad’s closet.
We were almost the same height, and I remembered him owning one really nice dark three-piece suit that he used to wear to weddings and important work dinners.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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