For six years, my house had been shared with Lynn and her children. When my son was alive, it never felt like a burden—our home was their home too. But after his passing, the quiet and memories became overwhelming. One day, consumed by grief and frustration, I told Lynn she needed to leave, believing I was protecting myself. She said nothing, simply gathered her children, calm yet sorrowful, and left. I mistook her silence for indifference, not realizing the depth of her own pain.
It wasn’t long before I learned something that changed everything. My son had asked her to stay in our home if anything ever happened to him, wanting his family to remain surrounded by love and support. My reaction—pushing them away—filled me with regret. That night, I struggled to sleep, burdened not only by grief but also by the realization that I had acted against my son’s wishes and his vision of family.
