there used to be magic in this world: spring would come and i'd hear the birds on my window, slurping on the water we prepared for them. my stepfather would wake up at the crack of dawn to continue building my tree house.

he never got to finish it. his heart stopped before i could say goodbye, and i remember feeling my heart sinking once i heard the news. 8 years old and no idea what any of the words meant; just that i would never see him again.

suddenly, life turned gray. there was no one to crack a joke in the middle of a picture. there was no late-night drives through the beach city and no rock music in the bars. everything became quiet except for my mind.

my mother disappeared. she hid herself on top of the highest shelf of her heart and made herself unapproachable, inconsolable. i was 8 and i needed my mother; yet, i was told life goes on and the world doesn't stop for my grief.

but it did. the whole world dropped out of its orbit to mourn that man, and i had to keep going. once i grew up, i kept looking for his joy in other adventurous men. i kept looking for my mother's warmth in anyone who would listen.

i believe i will never recover. i will be 28, 38, 48, and the time should stand still on that 27th of march, the day of his passing. the house he died in was the house i grew up in. we played hide and seek with his other kids, and the place was filled with laughter.

with his absence, the home became a house, and then an abandoned territory. the dust and the animals overtook it. newly rich people bought the land in front of it and obstructed the view to the beach. slowly, everything got worse — and there's nothing nobody could do to stop it.

my stepfather was gone, and i never got my tree house.