My name is Anna, and I’m 50 years old. My mother had just passed away at 85, leaving me alone in her house to sort through a lifetime of memories.
It had always been just the two of us. My father died when I was very young, and my mother became my anchor—my provider, protector, and the only adult voice in my world. She worked hard, kept our life simple, and rarely spoke about the past.
After the funeral, I returned to her house alone. I took a week off work, leaving my husband and children at home, knowing it would take several days to go through everything.
For three days, I worked through bedrooms and closets. Every object carried a memory, reminding me how small our world had been.
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