Frank and I bought that house when we were too young to understand how long thirty-two years could feel.
We paid for it through overtime, careful budgets, meals stretched across two nights, and holidays we kept saying we would take when things were easier.
Things were never easy.
They were ours, though.
That mattered.
After Frank died, the house seemed to breathe differently.
Every cupboard had a memory in it.
Every quiet morning had an empty chair.
I learned to make one cup of tea instead of two, which sounds small until you have done it after decades of reaching for the second mug without thinking.
Daniel began visiting more often after the funeral.
