My mom passed away. With her, a part of me died too. For years, my whole life was about taking care of her. She was really sick, and I did it all—fed her, bathed her, comforted her through the nights when pain and fear took over. I sacrificed my career, my social life, and sometimes even my sanity to make sure she was okay.
So when she died, it hit me really hard. Harder than I ever imagined. The house that once felt like a place of duty suddenly became a quiet tomb of memories. But I held onto one thought: At least this home, the one I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into, would be mine. It was a small solace after everything I had given up.