The home that once comforted me now felt unbearably empty. Every chair, every jacket, every echo reminded me of my son. I didn’t realize grief was twisting inward, turning sorrow into distance. Instead of drawing closer to Lynn and the children—who were grieving too—I began pushing them away.
One night, overwhelmed by pain I didn’t understand, I said the cruelest thing I’ve ever said: “You need to leave.” Lynn didn’t argue; she simply gathered the children with quiet dignity. Only later did I understand that my words came not from reason but from a heart broken beyond recognition.
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