One afternoon, while unpacking the last box of kitchen stuff, I found something that made me sit down on the floor.
A photo album.
It was one I’d thrown in a box years ago and forgotten about. I flipped it open and saw old snapshots: me and Clara in Halloween costumes, Clara with her arm around my shoulders, both of us grinning. My dad holding me on his shoulders at a fair. My mom smiling behind a birthday cake.
For a moment, grief hit me so hard it stole my breath.
Julian found me sitting there and lowered himself beside me without a word.
“They look happy,” he said quietly, looking at the pictures.
“They were,” I whispered. “Sometimes.”
He didn’t correct me. He didn’t say, But they still loved you. He just let the sadness exist without trying to talk me out of it.
That night, I dreamed about my childhood home. In the dream, the front door was wide open, and the house was full of strangers walking in and out like it was a public building. I tried to close the door, but it wouldn’t move. Every time I pushed, more people appeared.
When I woke up, my heart was racing.
Julian rolled toward me, half asleep. “Bad dream?” he murmured.