"I'm so sorry for your loss. Please come see me in a few days to discuss your father's estate." An older gentleman by the name of Foster Melton said, clapping me on the back and handing me a card before walking out of the church and into the dreary day.
It hadn't rained for weeks until today, and come to think of it, it was raining on the day my father died.
"Please accept my deepest condolences. It's hard to bury anyone let alone a father and with you at such a young age too. It's too bad." I heard someone else say to me, but I was too engrossed in what Foster had told me.
My father's estate? He didn't have anything while he was alive, why should he have anything now? And why was he giving it to me now? All these questions burned through me and it kept every ounce of my strength to stay sitting on the pew in the church listening to people who "knew" my father talk about his life, all of which I had no idea about.
"Evan?" I heard someone say softly.
Looking around I saw her sitting next to me now, most of everyone had left the Church and they were waiting on the steps outside for the progression to take my father's wooden coffin to the cart outside to bury him. "I'm ready," I sighed standing up and walking to the stand.
The rest of the day went just as well as any other funeral that I hadn't attended, lots of people telling me how sorry they were for what happened and how much I could rely on them if I needed the help, when in reality I knew they were only saying it to be nice, I know that if I did take anyone up on the offer they would politely decline and make up an excuse not to help.
At just 17 I was one year too young to take care of myself, according to the law, so the day after my father's funeral they came. They told me to pack my things and come with them until I turned 18 in a few months I had to stay with a 'foster family' a family designed to be loving and caring and look after me in my last few months of being a child. In reality, they were only a 'family' to get the money because they didn't want to work and it never works out. I fought with the men that came to get me and called them every word under the sun, explained to them I could look after myself but they didn't want to hear anything of it, or they had just heard it that many times while working that every word just blended into each child to the point where every day was the same thing. I ended up going with them, after many hours of complaining and fighting I gave in and packed a few things, making them promise that I could come back to this place and start up from where I left off.