The House Felt Like Mine Again
That weekend, I came back—not to stay, but to pack. The kitchen was how I’d left it. The nursery had only one crib. The guest room was stripped clean.
“She left this morning,” Arlo said.
“For good?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t fully believe it. But I stayed for lunch. He made grilled cheese and tomato soup—the way I liked it.
We finally talked. About grief. About boundaries. About the daughter we lost, who would have been three that week.
We cried together. We weren’t healed, but we were honest.
