I thought about the overdue library book I’d renewed yet again because I still wasn’t ready to let it go.
Mostly, I thought about a father who had driven forty minutes for what I insisted was only a minor surgery.
Because he knew I always called difficult things “minor” when I didn’t want him to worry.
He came anyway.
He always had.
The reading glasses now sit on Amber’s nightstand.
She took them home during her visit in May, and I didn’t fully realize how much that mattered until I walked into Dad’s bedroom and noticed the empty space where they’d always rested.
That small absence taught me something.
The house was becoming what it was meant to become.
Not a museum.
Not a monument.
Not a place frozen in time.
A home that honored the life my father had lived while making room for the lives that would continue after him.
That’s what homes do, if we allow them.
And that was worth fighting for.
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