My name is Grace.
A few months ago, my mother died after a long battle with cancer.
My younger brother and I were there when it happened. We held her hands as the machines in the hospital room beeped softly around us. I remember watching her breathe slower and slower, wishing there was something—anything—we could do to stop it.
But there wasn’t.
After the funeral, the house felt empty in a way I can’t really describe. Everything reminded me of her. The smell of her shampoo in the bathroom. The half-finished book on her nightstand. The quiet that suddenly filled every room.
My father seemed lost too.
For weeks he barely spoke. He spent most evenings sitting in the living room staring at old photos.
So when he asked my brother and me to sit down with him one evening, I thought he just wanted to talk about Mom.
Instead, he told us something that made my stomach twist.
He said he had fallen in love.
And he didn’t want to hide it anymore.
At first I thought I misunderstood him.
But then he said her name.
Victoria.
My mother’s younger sister.
My aunt.
A cold wave went through my chest.
Dad quickly started explaining. He said after Mom got sick, Victoria had been there for both of them. After Mom died, they leaned on each other even more. Grief had brought them closer.
What started as comfort, he said, slowly turned into love.
He told us life was too short to wait around being miserable.
So he proposed to her.
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