How Grief Taught Me the True Meaning of Home

That night, sleep refused to come. I tossed and turned, haunted by the look in Lynn’s eyes. By dawn, I stumbled into the kitchen, where one of my son’s old journals sat on the counter. Out of restless desperation, I opened it.

Inside, scrawled in his handwriting, were words that stopped my breath. He had once told Lynn, “If anything happens to me, promise me you will never leave Dad’s house. Stay there with the children. I want you to always have family around you.”

The realization struck like a blow. My son had trusted me to protect them, to hold them close, to keep his family united. And I had failed him in the most painful way. Instead of honoring his wish, I had driven them out with cruel words born of grief.

The Morning of Regret

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