When my dad grew ill, our home fell silent. Even through the pain, he never stopped asking about my day. Before he passed, he whispered, “Forgive me for what I didn’t do right.” I already had.
After the funeral, grief turned into conflict. Relatives argued, and my mother coldly told me to leave — said the house wasn’t mine. But during the will reading, everything changed. Dad had already transferred the house to me. The room went quiet.
My mother was furious at first, but time softened her. One afternoon, while fixing a broken fence together, she simply said, “I was wrong.”
Piece by piece, I brought life back into the home — and with it, peace. What Dad really left me wasn’t just a house, but the strength to forgive and begin again.
