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We ended up sitting in the living room — the very room where he used to curl up with a book or play music on quiet nights. For hours, we shared memories: funny stories, childhood moments, things we each loved about him. The grief became softer as we talked, almost transforming into gratitude for the time each of us had with him.
They didn’t take the house that day. They didn’t demand anything. Instead, they left with something far more meaningful — a connection to the son they had lost and a renewed understanding of what he had built.
And I realized something, too.
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