The week following my departure was a whirlwind of emotions and reflection. As I left my daughter’s home, I felt a profound sense of loss, not just for the physical space I was leaving behind, but for the bond that seemed to have frayed beyond repair. This was the home where laughter once echoed through hallways, where the walls were adorned with memories of a life shared. Yet, in that moment, I realized it was no longer my sanctuary.
I spent the first few days in a modest motel on the outskirts of town, the kind where the carpets are perpetually damp, and the walls carry the muffled sounds of transient lives. It was far from the comfort of my own home, but it provided the solitude I needed to gather my thoughts. I went through the motions, unpacking what little I had brought with me, flipping through channels on an old television set, and taking long walks in the nearby park, processing the gravity of what had transpired.
