How Grief Taught Me the True Meaning of Home

By morning light, regret weighed heavier than grief ever had. My son’s voice seemed to echo in my mind, not with anger, but with disappointment. I had not only lost him—I had nearly lost the last living connection to him as well.

Summoning courage, I asked Lynn to sit with me at the kitchen table. My voice shook as I spoke.

“I was wrong,” I confessed. “I let grief speak louder than love. This house is your home, too. Not out of pity, but because you are family. Because my son would want it this way.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. She did not scold me or remind me of my cruelty. She simply forgave.

A Home Restored

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