Every encounter with my father evoked a paralyzing fear unlike any I had ever known.

It felt like I had an invisible barrier up at all times, and every attempt he made to cross it put me on edge, like stepping into enemy territory. We never really hugged—our embraces were stiff as if we were going through the motions, pretending to have a normal father-daughter relationship, eager to get it over with.

At his funeral, I had no choice but to get close to him. It was mandatory to greet a line of relatives upon arrival—ten. I remember how difficult it was to face each one, especially as I approached the end of the line where Dotti, Rick, Ron, my stepmother, and my two stepbrothers stood. Once that formal greeting was over, I entered the room where my dad was laid out, dressed in a bright blue and purple suit—a stark contrast to his usual muted colors, except for those Hawaiian shirts on vacation.

His hair was always perfect, and he looked just right as if he were merely sleeping.

I desperately tried to recall my dad’s love for me as a little girl. I touched his hand, half-expecting him to hold mine back. I wanted him to comfort me.

But instead, tears streamed down my face as I focused on the energy emanating from him and the sensation of him holding my hand so tenderly. It was a foreign feeling because it felt so normal.

I wondered, “Is this what others experienced with him?”

I had never been near him when he was this vulnerable.

The church was packed—100 people inside and another 300 outside, with chairs and speakers in the parking lot. Seeing how many people were there for him made my defenses go up even more. I couldn’t have a normal conversation with anyone, and I couldn’t understand how he had managed to deceive so many people for so long.

It was surreal. Were they all pretending? My emotions and thoughts were in turmoil. I was sitting in the family pew next to Dotti, the woman who had tried to kill me when I was 16. I had always thought she was evil, yet there we were, side by side in a church.

I looked down and started crying, feeling like a scared little girl again.

My defenses were back up when we returned to the house after the service.

I was ready to leave with my daughter and husband. Dotti awkwardly tried to hug me.

“What are you doing? Don’t hug me!” I snapped. I reached to pick up my daughter, but Dotti grabbed her first, and for a moment, I envisioned a tug of war.

Dotti refused to let go, insisting, “No, you all need to stay here longer.”

But I was firm, “No, we need to go.”

My husband Dennis gave her his signature glare, one she had seen before. Finally, she handed our daughter to him, and we walked out the door. I was in shock.

We had just buried my dad, and Dotti was still as awful as ever. I felt like screaming for hours. I was so angry.

The last conversation I had with my dad haunted me.

Why couldn’t he have lived just a few more days until we had that talk? His sudden death left me with a terrible feeling. My dad and Dr. Martinelli always went to Montana for annual fishing trips. They had been best friends for 50 years. Why were they in Idaho this time?

The next day, I called Dr. Martinelli for answers. He told me my dad had been restless in Montana, pacing, not wanting to fish or be there. My dad had insisted on renting a cabin in Idaho, convinced it would be more peaceful. Dr. Martinelli said his gut kept telling him something bad would happen, but my dad was adamant. He needed to be in a quieter, less crowded place.

So they went. The cabin was simple and close to the river. My dad was up early the following day and wanted to leave alone. That was unusual, but off he went.

I could hear the pain in Dr. Martinelli’s voice as he recounted the day. Then he sighed as if he had been holding his breath.

I heard him say in that sigh, “Your dad loved you.”

My heart pounded in my chest. Panic set in. What if this wasn’t an accident?