But ghosts are not always enemies.
Some are guardians.
“I want to keep it,” I said.
So I did.
I changed the locks.
I painted the basement office yellow.
I turned Mom’s old sewing room into a study.
And the room Valerie had used became a guest room for Lily.
The first night she slept there, she stood in the doorway with a blanket in her arms and said, “Are you sure?”
I looked at the room.
New curtains. New bed. No perfume. No lilies.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just a room. She doesn’t get to haunt every corner.”
Lily smiled.
“Sarah would’ve liked you.”
I laughed.
“She made me.”
Lily looked toward the hallway, where one of Mom’s photos now hung again.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “She did.”
Two years after the wedding, Dad asked to meet me at Mom’s grave.
I almost said no.
Then I remembered Mom’s letter.
Believe his actions. Not his apologies.
His actions had changed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
He had made payments every month toward the money he owed. He had testified fully in Valerie’s case. He had not pushed me to forgive him. He had not shown up at the house uninvited.
So I went.
He was already there when I arrived, standing beside Mom’s headstone with his hands in his coat pockets.
He looked older.
Not tragically older.