I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13 Years and Found a Bag in the Attic with a Note for Me

I stood on the porch again, an old copper key in hand and my stomach twisting.

“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a house.”

But it wasn’t just a house. It was everything. It held my dad’s laughter, his endless advice and wisdom, and all our memories.

I pressed my forehead against the door. “Dad,” I choked out, “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree Dad had planted when I was born. I remember him saying, “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots and branches reaching for the sky.”

I only needed some old documents. That’s what I told myself. I’d grab them and leave. No lingering, no digging through memories. Just in and out.

But grief doesn’t work that way. And neither does love.

I turned the key and stepped inside.

“Welcome home, kiddo.” Dad’s voice echoed in my ears… that same voice and that same enthusiasm every time he saw me walk through the door.

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