illing as I devoted most of

of peach and cream in all the rooms, punctuated by a burst of color on an accent wall. My living space, consisting of a single bedroom with an en-

fferent opinion. According to

dchildren, anticipating that I would need more spacious accommodations for them. When such discussions arose,

onships forever. My mother, gently but firmly, asserted that it was merely the pain talking and that, being young, I would soon re

I was resolute in my

. Even as my father succumbed to terminal cancer, their affection remained evident. Following his passing,

rief moment, I thought I had found it. Ye

pple while observing me prepare a cup of bitter tea. I shook my head to dispel the vivid memory and frowned. It had taken a long time to erase every trace of him from my space, and this paint job was mean

eks away, and his was in the fall. We met in winter. So, why were these memories flooding back in the middle of March?

the shower, feeling utterly drained. Following a brief dinner of grille

part of my life, confined to some prison cell, never to return. The final memory before d

l

I succumb