Together, we turned that house into a home. Weekend projects, freshly painted walls, mismatched thrift-store furniture, and evenings filled with laughter stitched our lives into the space. Even during difficult times, he would take my hand and say, “One day, this home will be our forever.”
When he died, I clung to that promise. The house wasn’t just a structure — it was a symbol of everything he overcame and everything we built side by side.
They had been absent from his life for years. There had been no phone calls, no reunions, no attempts at reconciliation.
The quiet of their absence was something he carried with him, even when he rarely spoke of it. Seeing them now, standing in the doorway of the home he poured his love into, stirred emotions I wasn’t ready to face.
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