It was weird walking into my parent’s house, with them being dead and all. There was no smell of dinner cooking and no sound of a NASCAR race echoing down the hall from the living room. There was nothing. All of the books and the knickknacks on the shelves seemed to be staring wide-eyed at me as I walked around, disturbing the solace of an empty house. I felt like an intruder in the house where I grew up.