The day after the funeral, my daughter came to argue. She wanted me to leave this house, sell everything, move closer to her.
The rain started as she raised her voice. Tin roof over the back porch. I'd forgotten how loud it could get.
We sat there, yelling over the racket, then giving up. She asked if I'd be safer somewhere else.
I looked down at my wrist. The old wristband from the county fair, 1959. Faded blue, cracked, but still there. He'd won it for me throwing rings on bottles.
The rain kept pounding. The argument softened into silence. She finally squeezed my hand and left.
I sat there long after the rain stopped, feeling the tin roof cool down above me. This house isn't just lumber and nails. It's him. It's me. It's everything we built.
I'm seventy-six and living alone for the first time. But I'm not leaving. Not tonight.