Then I hung up.

Now, every time I drive past our parents’ house, I notice small, comforting details. I see Mom out in the garden, gently tending to her roses, her hands moving carefully as she nurtures the blooms. I spot Dad sitting on the porch, his book open but his gaze lost in thought, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon. The grass is lush and green, and the house seems to pulse with warmth and love again. It feels like a place of peace.

Emily doesn’t call anymore.

At first, I found myself wondering if I should reach out, if I should try to mend things. But with time, I’ve come to accept that some things, once broken, are better left that way. There’s a certain quiet resolution in leaving the past behind, in allowing things to be what they are, rather than forcing them to be something they’re not.

And that’s just fine. Sometimes, distance brings clarity, and I’ve realized that I don’t need to fix everything. Some relationships run their course, and accepting that is part of growing. The memories are still there, but they no longer haunt me. I’ve found peace in letting go.