The other house, he wrote, was for me.

Because he wanted me to feel safe.

He had also set aside enough money for me to live without fear. Enough to rest. Enough to breathe. Enough to recover after I had emptied everything trying to save him.

Even in pain. Even betrayed. Even fully aware of who stayed and who left—my son chose fairness.

He chose compassion over resentment.

He thanked the one who remained.

I raised a good man.

That truth is what keeps me upright now.