When my son passed away four months ago, my world shattered in ways I never could have prepared for. He left behind his wife, Lynn, and their two little ones — all of whom had lived under my roof for the past six years. The house that once overflowed with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the everyday chaos of family suddenly felt unbearably still. Every room carried a memory. Every corner reminded me of what I’d lost.
I was drowning in grief… but I wasn’t the only one. Lynn was grieving too, trying to stay strong for the children while carrying her own heartbreak quietly. And somewhere along the way, the weight of it all became too much for me. One afternoon, with emotions tangled and heavy, I told her she had to move out. I convinced myself that distance, that space, might help us both breathe again — that maybe it was the only way either of us could heal.
