For six years, Lynn and her children had lived under my roof.
When my son was still alive, their presence never felt like an intrusion and our home was full of laughter, noise, and life. But after his passing, the silence became unbearable, every corner echoing with memories I couldn’t face.
One afternoon, overwhelmed by sorrow and bitterness, I told Lynn she had to move out. I convinced myself it was for my own peace of mind. She didn’t argue; she simply packed her things, gathered the kids, and left with quiet dignity. Her silence, I thought, meant she didn’t care. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Days later, I found a letter my son had written before his d3ath. In it, he asked Lynn to stay in our home if anything ever happened to him and he wanted his family surrounded by love and familiarity, not loneliness. Reading those words shattered me. I realized I had not only betrayed Lynn’s trust but also gone against my son’s final wish.
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