When I was seventeen my mother Marjorie Morgan died within five months of an ovarian cancer diagnosis that moved through her like a thief. One month we sat at our Mount Pleasant kitchen table debating whether I should apply to colleges out of state and the next she was too weak to lift her coffee mug.
The day she died the house felt as if someone had turned off the heat from inside the walls. After the funeral I stood in the living room staring at her silver framed photo while the ceiling fan kept spinning and Charleston traffic crawled across the Ravenel Bridge as if nothing had changed.
My father Conrad Morgan was a respected attorney whose name opened doors across the city’s polished circles, and after Mom passed he worked even more because courtrooms were easier than grief. He left earlier, came home later, and the house became a museum I wandered alone.
Two years later Sylvia arrived glossy and poised with soft laughter and perfect posture. She spoke about blending families the way executives talk about strategic alignment, and I tried to be gracious because grief makes you starve for warmth.