I wrote about the first rose opening in my garden after winter.

I wrote that his porch needed attention, and I was sorry I hadn’t fixed it sooner.

The notebook didn’t solve anything.

It didn’t bring him back or make my parents gentle.

But slowly it changed the way I understood home.

The farmhouse wasn’t proof that Walter had chosen me over Donald.

It was proof he trusted me to care for something after he couldn’t.

That distinction mattered.