For the first time in years, I saw Sandra not as an intruder, but as someone brave enough to carry the weight we couldn’t.
That night, I sat with my family—my little brother, my father, and Sandra—in the kitchen I once avoided.
The mismatched napkins made me smile. The roast lamb smelled like home. The pie was pecan—my favorite.
I didn’t feel like a guest in someone else’s life anymore.
I felt like a daughter again. A sister. A part of something still healing, but whole.
When I looked around the table, I realized that my mother wasn’t being erased—she was being remembered in the only way that mattered: with love, food, and the soft laughter of the family she’d left behind.
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