But real love sometimes requires the harder choice: opening the door, telling the truth, and allowing another person to feel what they need to feel.
Today, whenever I see that house across the street, I don’t think about the trash bags anymore.
I think about Emily.
I think about Barbara.
And I think about how easily we can mistake another person’s pain for something ugly when we don’t know the story behind it.
Do you think keeping Emily’s room locked for eleven years preserved her memory—or prevented Barbara and David from grieving honestly?
