When my son passed away four months ago, my world changed in ways I never imagined. He left behind his wife, Lynn, and their two little ones, who had been living in my home for six years. The house that once echoed with laughter now felt heavy with silence and memories. I was grieving, but I was also overwhelmed. One day, I told Lynn she had to move out — I thought space would help us both heal.
She didn’t argue, didn’t even shed a tear. She simply nodded, gathered her children, and quietly began packing their things. I took her calmness as acceptance, unaware that behind it was something much deeper. Days later, I found a letter on the kitchen table — one she had written to my son before he passed. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
