When my father passed away, the aftermath was quiet in the way grief sometimes is—heavy, awkward, and filled with unfinished conversations. At the reading of his will, it became clear that he had left nothing of material value to my stepmother. Some relatives whispered, others laughed uncomfortably, assuming it confirmed their long-held opinions about her place in the family. She stood there composed, offering no defense, no explanation. When the gathering ended, it was obvious she had nowhere to go. Against the advice of my siblings, who warned me I would regret it, I invited her to stay with me. It didn’t feel heroic or dramatic—it simply felt like the decent thing to do.
Living together wasn’t always easy, but it was quietly meaningful. She kept mostly to herself, filling her days with small routines: early morning tea, tending to the garden, folding laundry with meticulous care. Over time, we developed a gentle rhythm.