Twenty years after losing his wife and daughters, I thought I was finally ready to open the rooms that grief had kept frozen in time. I was wrong. Some houses do not give up their secrets quietly.
The house felt heavier than usual that morning, like it knew something I didn’t. Twenty years of silence had settled into the walls, the wood, even the air I breathed.
I stood in the kitchen staring at a stack of empty boxes my sons had brought in the night before.
“Dad, you sure you want to start with the girls’ room?” Adam asked, leaning against the doorway with two coffee mugs in his hands.
“No,” I admitted. “But if I don’t start there, I’ll never start at all.”
Ethan walked in behind him, sleeves already rolled up.
“We’ll do it together,” he said softly. “All three of us. You don’t have to open that door alone.”
I took the coffee from Adam and tried to smile.
“You boys grew up too fast. When did you get taller than me?”
“Around the same time you stopped eating real food,” Ethan teased. “Frozen dinners don’t count, Dad.”
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang.
I already knew who it was.
Diane stood on the porch holding a casserole dish, her smile gentle, her eyes too watchful.
“I came to help,” she said. “I couldn’t let you pack up Laura’s things without me.”
“You didn’t have to drive all this way, Diane.”
“Of course I did. She was my sister. These are her things too.”
Adam’s jaw tightened immediately.
“Aunt Diane,” he said flatly. “Didn’t expect you.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been part of this family for twenty years. Where else would I be?”
I stepped aside and let her in, because saying no to Diane had always felt impossible.
Adam grabbed a flashlight.
“I’ll start in the basement,” he muttered. “Less ghosts down there.”
“Adam,” I warned gently.
