I froze when I found out her son had passed away six months ago, leaving her alone. Guilt hit me—evicting her now seemed harsher than ever. She arrived, tears in her eyes, holding a small box. Inside was a watch my dad gave her, engraved with their anniversary date. “He wanted you to have this,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I was angry. I just miss him.”
We talked for hours. She explained her silence was grief, not spite. I offered her the house back, rent-free, as a gesture of peace. She hesitated, then agreed, on condition she’d help maintain it. We hugged, a fragile truce forming.
That night, I reflected on my dad’s legacy—not just the house, but the love he shared with her. I decided to honor that by rebuilding our bond. The watch now sits on my dresser, a reminder that family, even broken, can heal.
