Years passed in silence. I sometimes wondered if I had made the wrong choice. I thought about family dinners, vacations, and the way my dad’s face lit up when we were together. Losing him was hard enough. Losing someone he loved, someone who had shared his life, made the grief feel heavier. The guilt lingered, quiet but persistent, like a door left ajar.
Yesterday, she called. Her voice was calm, but she asked to see me. When she arrived, she looked older, gentler. She carried a small package. I asked how long she had been carrying the sadness. “It wasn’t just the house,” she said. “It was losing him. I wasn’t ready to talk about money or change. I was just… broken.”
