Coming home to an empty house was the worst part. The mere sight of the empty kitchen stabbed a knife at her heart. No clanking sound of the pots, no humming to the tune of some old cheesy music. Everywhere was utter silence. Nothing felt right.

She used to come home and immediately put her hands around his torso. He was a tall man, her dad, and she was even shorter than her mother. He used to tell her not to hug him 'cause he smelled of the garlic and onion he'd been cooking with. She never listened though. She seldom made it home, especially with the licensure exam around the corner, and he was always cooking her favorite food anyway, whenever she did manage take the two hour trip.

She was his favorite, at least that's what she thinks, and he was hers. He was the only reason she would endure the long traffic. She wasn't prone to homesickness, but she always found herself missing him tremendously. A daddy's girl, her relatives had always said. And in fact, she was.

Last week had been her birthday, just three weeks before the exam. She went home and they celebrated. Everything seemed normal. He'd told her he was feeling tired so instead of him cooking they'd ordered take out and cake instead. She even woke up early for mass that Sunday, something she hadn't done in months, just so she could sit right at the back with him on her special day. She could still remember telling him she wouldn't be able to come home the following week before she left again that night. But he must've completely forgotten 'cause he cooked her favorite dish the following Saturday.

She was slowly becoming a grown up, had a mini life of her own and all that. Now that she thought more about it, she'd been too preoccupied with herself to even ask what he was up to - how he was doing. She'd always assumed he was still doing the same stuff. He loved cleaning the house, loved cooking for her mom and only sister. He always went to the Off-track Betting parlor in town on Saturdays, always lay on his overused foam at night to read that little booklet he called a 'reviewer'. Betting on horses was his favorite past time, that and watching that funny afternoon show where people get to win tons of money by picking the right box. His life had been monotonous but she knew he was contented. Perhaps that may have been the reason he was taken from them at such young age.

The smooth marble seemed colder than usual underneath her palms. It felt wrong. Like herself the long counter stared back at her, empty. There were no stains to indicate he'd even used it a week before. He had a habit of leaving his workstation spotless. But at that moment it seemed to her a bitter act, like he didn't want to leave anything behind for them to remember him by. He'd always said he didn't want them worrying about him, which was probably why he never mentioned he wasn't feeling well. Though she could only assume he had been sick. The heart attack had been too sudden. That and it was massive as the doctor had told them. Had he known, she wondered, but her mind didn't want to go there yet, the pain inside her still too raw. Or perhaps 'couldn't' would be more appropriate, though it didn't matter what words she chose.

She pursed her lips to lock in the hurt. In the bedroom she could hear her mother's wails muffled by a pillow, her sister nowhere in sight. Outside she could hear their relatives talking in low voices. They all had memories to share it seemed, though she found herself in no mood to listen to any of them. Her dad had always been such a people person, so easy to get along with. She didn't doubt they'd be nothing but warm and happy stories, such was his personality. His jokes were endless, his humor profound. But hearing them would tear her to even more pieces, she was sure. She would never make it to the end of them.

Her eyes passed the small altar to her left as she turned her head away from the sounds of her mother's crying. There a picture of her dad stood, framed in mahogany, from then on the only place she'd see his vibrant smile.

She felt her heart clench, wetness brimming her eyes. She took a deep shaky breath and quickly dismissed such thoughts. She needed to light him a candle she told herself - a distraction. Wasn't it tradition to do just that? And so she made her way slowly towards the cupboards, opening them lazily one by one in search of the familiar wax cylinder. She finally felt her hands on one when she reached into the shelves above the sink and she pulled it out ever so gently so as not to disturb the surrounding mess. She grabbed the disposable lighter she kept in her pocket, lighting the wick as she moved towards wooden divider.

Staring at her dad's old and gentle eyes seemed like torture as she struggled to melt the bottom of the candle and get it to stick on the painted wooden top. The next time she'd seen him after her birthday was already at the hospital morgue and his pale face then and how it felt under her hands flashed like a vivid nightmare in her mind.

She pursed her lips again, harder this time. No. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't let the damn tears fall. Perhaps there would be time for that but certainly not until her mother and her sister put themselves back together from the loss. She was her daddy's girl and he'd always hated crying. For her family she would be strong. For her dad she would hold those tears.

She promised herself then she wouldn't let the sadness break her. She would keep it in a cage and bury the keys in the deepest trench in her mind for as long as she needed to. She was the strongest of them three he left behind. She would be the one to hold them together.

She closed her eyes and arranged her thoughts. No tears, she reminded herself. No tears.