MY WIFE DIED SUDDENLY—SIX MONTHS LATER, MY DAUGHTER WHISPERED, “MOM SAID NOT TO TRUST GRANDMA”

Spring arrived five months after the trial ended.

The wet, gray October rain that had covered our lives gave way to warm, golden sunlight, blooming cherry blossoms, and green grass.

For the first time in two years, I decided it was time to do what I had been too terrified to do after Chloe died: clean out the garage.

I didn't do it alone.

Sarah came over with a box of heavy-duty trash bags. Ethan, Harper, and Lucas helped carry out old cardboard boxes, sorting through what needed to be saved, what could be donated, and what belonged in the trash.

We moved the old bikes. We cleared out the paint cans from the bedroom Chloe had wanted to redo.

And finally, we reached the back corner behind the metal file cabinet.

The space where the blue suitcase had sat for months was clean now. I had painted over the concrete floor, sealing away the old dust and cobwebs.

In the corner, where the broken rocking chair Chloe had swore she’d fix one day had sat, Ethan and I set to work. Together, using her old toolkit, we repaired the broken wooden arm, sanded down the rough edges, and painted it a bright, cheerful sky-blue—Chloe’s favorite color.

We carried the restored rocking chair out of the garage and placed it on the back porch, right beside the wooden garden box where Chloe’s marigolds had finally grown back, bright yellow and vibrant against the green lawn.

Harper walked out onto the porch, carrying a framed photograph of Chloe smiling on a beach in Vermont—the same trip where we had taken the blue suitcase years ago. She placed the photograph on the small side table beside the rocking chair.