My name is Edna, and I’ve lived in this house for over fifty years. This home holds every memory I have with my late husband, Harold. He planted the trees, trimmed the hedges, and made sure our little piece of earth was perfect.
We raised our two children here, watched them grow, and then watched them leave to start their own families. Now, it’s just me, but every blade of grass in this yard reminds me of the life we built together.
Our son, Tom, still comes by often. He’s a good boy, always making sure the lawn is mowed and the gutters are clean. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff, Mom,” he tells me, with that gentle but firm tone of his. I smile and nod, knowing he has his own family and a busy job. I don’t want to burden him, so I never complain.
The house is quiet now, has been ever since Harold passed. But it’s still my sanctuary, filled with love and memories. The silence is comforting, like a warm blanket around my shoulders. Or at least, it was.
