Finally Cheryl was finished and left dragging her bags and dignity with her, not a word—as if she’d never been there, most definitely not an apology.
Later, Janine and I sat at the kitchen table where I sat doing my homework while my dad made dinner. We discussed my mom’s old pecan pie recipe and decided we would bake it together. It wasn’t perfect, but it filled the house with the warmth I had missed.
That night I slept in my childhood room. I found the keepsake box that my dad had hidden from Cheryl and opened his closet—full of flannel shirts and his old tan jacket he wore every fall. I stuffed it with my face—the cedar and aftershave scent. I didn’t cry, I just let the silence embrace me.
Later, I picked up my guitar and played the song I wrote after the funeral. The house felt less haunted. It felt like healing.
And it was mine.