The silence in my late mother’s room felt heavier than grief—it was a silence laced with memory. Her lavender-scented sweater lay folded in my lap, soft and familiar, as I sat cross-legged on her carpet, surrounded by relics of her life: a chipped teacup, her worn glasses, a single bobby pin. Each one whispered a different chapter.
I thought I knew all her stories. I was wrong.
Neil, my fiancé, stepped gently into the room. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said, kneeling beside me.
“She could’ve bought new things,” I whispered, holding up her patchy sweatpants. “But these were her favorites. Even after she came into money. She never explained how—just said it changed our luck.”
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