I grew up modestly, married young, and lived happily with my husband, George. He was a good man who built our family home board by board, sanding each railing himself, smiling whenever the floorboards creaked under his steps. That house became the keeper of our story.
We raised our son, Mark, within those walls. We celebrated birthdays, endured difficult days, made Sunday cornbread, and comforted each other in loss. When George fell ill with cancer, I stayed by his side through every long night and painful treatment. And when I finally had to say goodbye, the house became too quiet to bear. His chair sat empty. His coffee mug remained untouched. Even the clock seemed louder without him there.
So when Mark called one night and said gently, “Mom, you shouldn’t be alone anymore. Come live with us,” I let myself believe that moving in with him, his wife Laura, and their two children would breathe life back into my days.
Selling my home was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I convinced myself it was for a new beginning. Nearly all the money from the sale went into renovations for Mark and Laura’s house—new roof, bigger kitchen, an updated guest room. We painted it together. He told me, “We’re building a place for all of us, Mom.”
I believed him with all my heart.
A Gradual Shift
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