Chapter 15 - THE HOUSE WAS NOT A MUSEUM
I almost moved.
The trust allowed sale of the house if the trustee concluded it benefited Eira.
I asked.
Why?
Every room felt contaminated by two ghosts.
My late wife.
Ainsley’s attempt to erase her.
Maya asked:
“Does Eira want to move?”
I had not asked.
Of course.
I asked.
She looked confused.
“Why?”
“Sometimes houses hold hard memories.”
“Mine house?”
“Yes.”
“My room pink.”
“It is.”
“Tree swing.”
“Yes.”
“Mommy house?”
“She lived here.”
“Then no.”
Simple.
The trustee did not force the decision onto a four-year-old, obviously.
But her attachment mattered.
We stayed.
Then I made another mistake.
I overcorrected.
Photographs everywhere.
Her mother’s scarf framed.
Wedding picture back in the living room.
Letters on display.
Maya walked in once and looked around.
“Galen.”
“What?”
“You built a shrine.”
I stared.
Then laughed.
She was right.
Grief pendulum.
From hiding to worship.
Eira needed neither.
We reduced.
One photograph in her room.
One family picture in the hallway.
Albums accessible.
Keepsake box in a low locked cabinet she could open with me.
No altar.
No erasure.
A home.
Years later, that balance became one of the most important things I learned.
May you like
Memory needs room.
Not the whole house.
