The house?
The old home I grew up in? The one I assumed had fallen into disrepair?
My father had been quietly restoring it.
Repairing each creaky floorboard.
Repainting worn shutters.
Making small, steady improvements—all the while dismissing them as “just maintenance.”
He never told me. He wanted it to feel like a gift, not a duty. No strings attached. No guilt. Just love.
And in that moment, I felt something inside me shift. Love doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it works quietly—in small, thoughtful acts that speak louder than words, long after someone is gone.
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