The phone call had left Greg disturbed to say the least. The drive back upstate was silent, even though he played music in the background he didn't really hear it. It was more of a daze than anything. The funeral, the will, the arrangements— everything seemed to be speeding along much faster than he had expected. Dad was dead. Gone. Forever.<br/><br/>Greg hadn't seen him in six months— since Christmas. Work. Work. Work. His sister had constantly reasserted that he needed to visit— she had moved out of the city only recently to go back to their small little hamlet that sat two hours north of Manhattan on the edge of Westchester County. It was the boondocks of Westchester. "You need to spend more time with Family Greg." Rachel would say over the phone while most likely cradling one of his Nieces or Nephews.<br/><br/>But Greg hadn't. And now Dad was gone. The worst part was walking into the house and seeing that nearly everything was the same, only a pair of shoes were missing from the shoe rack and a few coats. That was all that seemed to have changed.<br/><br/>Friends and family that he hadn't seen in years came to the funeral and spoke about how great Dad was. He was great. Respected. Dad had grown up on the farm— my grandparents had inherited the farm and decided to actually farm on it after the Great Depression. Dad ended up taking it over and opened up a restaurant (he took farm to table seriously enough to the point where dad had slaughtered most of the meat in every dish he cooked). Luckily the restaurant took off and ended with dad having two Michelin stars. Pretty good for a boondock farmer's boy.<br/><br/>As he stepped into his childhood home— the floor boards creaking in all the exact spots he remembered, he wasn't greeted by his sister, mother or his brother in-law, but M.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="5" data-username="@Beauty" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/5/">@Beauty</a>