At first, I thought the children’s presence would soothe me, a reminder of him. But instead, every corner of the house screamed of his absence. His jacket still hung by the door. His chair at the table sat empty. His voice echoed only in memory.
My grief twisted inward. Instead of drawing me closer to his family, it made me push them away. Each time I looked at Lynn, I saw my son’s eyes. Each time I heard the children, I heard him in their voices. And instead of comforting me, it pierced me deeper.
The Breaking Point
One evening, as Lynn prepared the children for bed, I could no longer contain my bitterness. The words escaped before I could stop them.
“You must leave,” I told her, my voice harsh. “This is my house, not a free shelter.”Continue reading…
