I thought I was doing the right thing.

After my best friend’s mom died in August 2025, the world seemed to tilt off its axis for her. Grief didn’t hit all at once—it arrived in waves. Some days she was quiet but steady. Other days she could barely get out of bed. I watched her try to be “strong,” the way people always expect you to be when something shatters your life, and I knew her apartment—crowded, noisy, full of reminders—wasn’t helping.

So I offered her my childhood home.

It had been empty since my parents downsized. Same creaky floors. Same sun-faded curtains. A place that still smelled faintly of old books and lemon cleaner. I thought it would give her space to breathe, somewhere quiet to land while she figured out how to exist in a world without her mom.

At first, it felt right.

She texted me pictures of the backyard at sunset. Told me she slept better there. Said the silence helped. I checked in every day—sometimes too much—and she always replied, even if the messages were short. I told myself that was grief. That I didn’t need to fix anything. Just be there.

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