Kate’s father died two days ago. He lived halfway across the world, and now her family is pressuring her to fly 20 hours to attend his funeral. They say she’ll regret it forever if she doesn’t go. But to Kate, the man they’re mourning was never truly her father.
He abandoned her when she was just eight. No goodbye. No calls. No visits. Just a few impersonal birthday cards—later revealed not even to be in his handwriting. He started a new life abroad with a new family, leaving Kate and her mother to fend for themselves. She learned early not to expect anything from him.
Now, his new family wants her to show up and grieve publicly, as if she were part of his life. But Kate feels like she’s being asked to perform sorrow for someone who never showed up for her.
Then, something unexpected happens. One of her half-siblings reaches out. He tells Kate they found a box of unsent letters—written by her father over the years. Letters full of apologies, regret, and longing. He’d even bought tickets to visit her once but never followed through. The letters had been hidden by his wife.
Suddenly, Kate is torn. Did he truly regret leaving her? Was he kept from reaching out? Or is this just too little, too late?
Her family calls her heartless. But Kate wonders: is it wrong to protect herself from reopening old wounds? Is she obligated to mourn a man who never made space for her in his life?
She finds solace in the idea that funerals are for the living, not the dead. That closure doesn’t require a plane ticket. That grief can be private, quiet, and self-protective. She may not cry at his grave, but she can still light a candle, write a letter, or simply feel what she feels—without guilt.
In the end, Kate chooses peace over performance. And if that makes her the villain, so be it.
