I was eight years old when I learned that the people who are supposed to love you can throw you away like trash.

It happened on the day of my daddy’s funeral.

The sky over Maplewood, Ohio, hung low and gray, like the whole town was holding its breath.

The church bells tolled softly that morning, and every single ring sounded like a goodbye I wasn’t ready to hear.

I stood at the edge of the open grave, clutching my teddy bear so hard my fingers ached.

My daddy’s name was Harold Carter, and he wasn’t just my father.

He was my only anchor in the whole wide world.

Every night, he tucked me into bed and whispered, “Lily, you’re never alone.”

Every time I cried, he dried my tears with the corner of his flannel shirt.

And now he was gone.

The final shovels of earth fell onto his coffin with a heavy