The key they’d given me still fit in the lock, but the house no longer feels like home. As I step into the dilapidated house and close the door behind me, I’m sixteen again. The heavy grief that has a permanent home in my chest is temporarily replaced with a young sense of familiarity, togetherness, and joy - feelings I haven’t greeted in over 20 years. I gently place the single house key in the same dish I always had and run my manicured fingers over dusty family portraits hanging in the hallway. Then, I remind myself why I’m here… my parents' house needs to be packaged and sold, they’re long dead, and it’s all my fault.