How Could He Move On So Fast?

“How could you do this? How could you?” My voice cracked as I stood in the doorway, the echo bouncing off the newly painted hallway, the unfamiliar scent of lavender cleaner stinging my nose. I was still wearing my backpack, sneakers muddy from the rain, clutching my gym bag with trembling hands. Dad just stood there, his arms wrapped around a woman who didn’t belong in our house. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It had only been five months since Mom died—five months since cancer ripped her away from us, since I’d watched her fade day by day, since Dad and I had sat in the hospital holding hands, promising each other we’d get through this. I never imagined that promise would be so easily broken.

I remember the first time I saw her. Her name was Lisa. She had perfectly straight blond hair, a voice that was too cheerful for our quiet home, and a way of smiling at Dad that made my stomach turn. I was supposed to go to the theater with Dad that night—a plan we’d made weeks ago. But as I burst through the front door, ready to change and beg him for ice cream on the way, I found him in the living room, laughing at something she said. Two mugs on the table. A scarf draped over the couch that didn’t belong to either of us.

“Emily, I—” Dad started, but I ran upstairs before he could finish. I slammed my bedroom door and pressed my face into my pillow, muffling the scream that was building in my chest. My phone buzzed with a text from my best friend, Madison: “Let me know when your dad gets home! So jealous of your theater date!” I stared at it, the words blurring.

That night, I didn’t go to the theater. Dad knocked on my door, but I ignored him. I heard Lisa leave an hour later, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. When Dad finally came in, he looked older—like the weight of what he’d done was just starting to sink in.

“Honey, we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” I said, turning away. “You already made your choice.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, sighing. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. I was going to tell you tonight, after we got back. Lisa’s… she’s important to me. I miss your mom, too, but—”

“Don’t say her name!” I yelled, feeling my face burn. “You don’t get to talk about her—not after this.”

Dad recoiled, and for a moment I saw the man who used to tuck me in at night, who carried me on his shoulders through the Fourth of July parades, who held Mom’s hand when the doctors delivered the worst news. But that man felt far away now, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize.

The days blurred together after that. Lisa started coming over more often, bringing casseroles and asking me about school as if I were her project. Dad tried to act like nothing had changed, but everything had. I started staying late at Madison’s house, skipping dinner, ignoring their texts. The silence in our home was deafening—broken only by the sound of Lisa’s laughter or the clink of her wine glass.

One night, I came home to find Lisa’s shoes by the door. I hesitated, heart racing, and then heard her talking in the kitchen. “She’ll come around. She’s just grieving.”

“I know,” Dad said. “But I can’t lose her, too.”

I felt sick. Was I something he could just lose? Was I being unreasonable? For days, I replayed that conversation in my head, wondering if I was the one tearing the family apart. Madison said I needed to talk to him. “He’s hurting, too, Em. Maybe he just… doesn’t know how to be alone.”

But how could he be with someone else so soon? How could he let another woman into our home, into Mom’s kitchen, into our lives, before I’d even finished my first round of grief counseling?

I finally snapped during dinner one Sunday. Lisa had made meatloaf—Mom’s recipe, but wrong, too much ketchup. Dad was talking about a vacation. “Maybe we could go to the beach this summer. The three of us.”

I slammed my fork down. “There is no ‘three of us.’ There’s you and your new girlfriend, and there’s me.”

Lisa’s face fell, and Dad’s eyes flashed with anger. “Emily, that’s enough.”

“No! It’s not enough. You don’t get to replace Mom and pretend like I’m okay with it.”

Lisa stood up, her voice trembling. “I’m not trying to replace anyone. I just want to get to know you.”

“I don’t want you to know me!” I shouted, and stormed out. I spent the night at Madison’s, refusing to answer Dad’s calls.

Weeks passed. Dad grew quieter, Lisa stopped coming by as much. Madison’s mom suggested family therapy. I refused. Why should I be the one to fix this?

The final straw came when I found Lisa’s toothbrush in the bathroom. I confronted Dad, voice shaking. “Are you moving her in?”

He looked tired. “I thought if I eased you into it, you’d understand.”

“I’ll never understand,” I whispered. “Not if you pretend Mom never existed.”

That night, I packed a bag and went to Madison’s again. Her mom sat me down. “Emily, grief is messy. Your dad’s making mistakes, but so are you. Maybe talk to him—not about Lisa, but about your mom.”

I didn’t sleep. In the morning, I texted Dad: “Can we talk about Mom? Just us?”

He picked me up, and we drove to the park where we used to picnic. We talked for hours—about Mom, about missing her, about the fear of being alone. He cried. I cried. We didn’t fix everything, but for the first time, I felt seen.

Lisa didn’t move in, at least not for a long time. Dad and I started therapy together. I still missed Mom every day, and I still wasn’t ready for Lisa to be part of our family. But I started to believe that maybe, one day, I’d be able to forgive.

Sometimes I wonder: does moving on mean forgetting, or is it just finding a new way to remember? Would you be able to forgive, if you were me?