They had been living in my house for six years. When he was alive, it never felt like a burden—my home was their home. But after his passing, my grief twisted into frustration. I felt the silence of the house, the reminders of him everywhere, and one day I snapped. I told Lynn, “You must leave. My house is not a free shelter.” She said nothing. No argument, no anger just silence. She gathered her children close, her face pale but calm. In that moment, I mistook her quiet for indifference, when in truth, she was carrying a pain far greater than mine.
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