Weeks later I walked the rooms of the house we kept—palm skimming the hallway where my height marks still faintly laddered the paint, eyes catching the photo of Dad holding a squinting baby version of me, fingers finding the dent in the doorframe from a bad night when I was sixteen and thought slamming wood was power. The anger I’d carried like an heirloom had changed weight. Not absolution. Not a blank slate. Just… lighter.
I kept the house. I kept my father’s steadiness. And I let the rest go.
If you’re standing where I stood—hurt, protective, exhausted—don’t let bitterness be the last thing you inherit. Sometimes closure shows up in a crooked envelope with a key. Sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, peace is a decision you get to make, and you don’t need anyone else’s permission to choose it.
