That night, I found one of my son’s journals. Inside was a message he had written to Lynn: a request that she and the children stay in my home if anything ever happened to him. In that moment, I saw clearly how deeply I had failed him and the family he trusted me to protect.
The next morning, I asked Lynn to stay—not from pity, but from love. She forgave me with grace I didn’t deserve. And slowly, the house filled with life again: children’s laughter, shared meals, and small moments of healing.
Through grief, I learned that home isn’t a building—it’s the people who choose to stay, forgive, and love. My son is gone, but through his family, his presence lives on.
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