My late partner’s parents suddenly appeared and demanded I give them the keys to his house—I agreed under one condition.
Grief has a way of twisting time.
Some days it felt as though Logan had only just kissed me goodnight, his hand warm against mine as he drifted into sleep. Other days, the silence in the house pressed so heavily against me that it felt like he had been gone for decades.
In truth, only six months had passed since his sudden death, a heart attack that had taken him at just thirty-five, leaving me adrift in a sea of unfinished plans and unspoken words.
We had lived together in the small but cozy brick house on Ashbury Lane, a place he had inherited from his grandmother before we met. Though the deed had been in his name, he had always called it our home. We had painted the walls together, planted herbs in the kitchen window, argued over furniture placement, and dreamed of filling it with children one day.
