My Parent's House: A Story About Letting Go With Dignity.

When my father passed, the house felt like a museum.

His boots were still by the door.

My Parent's House

The kitchen still smelled like coffee, and the basement still held tools older than me.

I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

I’d grown up in that house, but I hadn’t lived there in decades.

Suddenly, I was the one in charge of a property, of memories, of a decision I didn’t see coming.

"The kitchen still smelled like coffee, and the basement still held tools older than me."

The roof needed work. The neighbor’s lawn had crept over the fence line.

And inside, I was overwhelmed by boxes, photos, and the ache of what had been.

I thought I’d rent it.

Then I thought I’d fix it.

But I didn’t have the time, or the energy, or the funds.

What I needed was clarity, and someone who wouldn’t rush me.

Eventually, I talked to a broker who just listened.

No pressure.

No sales pitch.

Just help.

We made a plan to get the house emptied, cleaned, and listed with dignity.

And in a few weeks, someone else saw the same potential my parents once had.

I was able to grieve and let go, without guilt.

Have you been through this?