I didn’t understand what he meant.
He explained that my panicked post had forced him to act. “It made me go back. I hadn’t stepped foot in that house since the funeral. But when I saw your post, I panicked. I drove over at 2 a.m. to check the camera. And when I got there… I sat on the couch for three hours. I just sat there. And for the first time, it didn’t feel unbearable.”
A few months later, Marten messaged one last time: “I’m selling the house. But before I do, I’m hosting one last gathering. Want to come?”
We couldn’t attend, but we sent flowers. He replied with a photo of his mother’s kitchen table, now covered with candles and small, handwritten memories from neighbors, friends, and even previous guests—a final, beautiful tribute to Mila.
I printed that photo and put it on our fridge.
It serves as a constant reminder of how easy it is to assume the worst in people and how quickly we are to judge without asking questions. But it also reminds us of the power of grace. If I hadn’t written that first angry review, Marten might never have had the push he needed to finally go back to that house and begin to heal.
Now, whenever we check into a new Airbnb, I still check the smoke detectors. But I check with more than just suspicion. I check with a reminder that sometimes, the things we fear are just fragments of someone else’s love, left behind.
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