When my father passed away, grief didn’t arrive dramatically. It settled quietly into daily moments. At the reading of the will, my half-sister inherited the house, the savings, and everything of clear value. I received one thing: his old cactus, the same plant that had sat by his window for years. My half-sister laughed, saying she had children to think about and that I, at 42, would be fine with something small. I didn’t argue. I took the cactus home and placed it on my kitchen table, unsure how to feel.