Then last year, Austin died in a car accident.
For months afterward, our house went quiet.
One morning, he kissed me goodbye and reminded Kelly to finish her spelling homework.
That afternoon, a police officer stood at my door.
For months afterward, our house went quiet.
Kelly stopped asking to watch football.
Austin’s team jersey stayed folded over the back of his chair exactly where he’d left it.
I kept expecting noise from rooms that stayed painfully quiet.
Every Sunday, Kelly still sat beside me on the couch.
But she stared at the empty cushion where her dad used to sit.
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