Her relief was palpable through the phone, her gratitude unspoken but understood. “Thank you,” she whispered, the first real glimmer of hope I’d heard from her in too long.

As I drove away, I felt a sense of clarity. This wasn’t over. I’d fight for Emma, for Mom’s memory, for the family we were before grief and time twisted us into something unrecognizable. Monica might have tried to take up too much space, but I was determined to carve out room for Emma, for Mom, and for the love that had once filled those walls.