As for me, I returned to my small house, the one they had deemed unworthy and insignificant. The walls carried echoes of my life, a lifetime of memories, and it was here that I found my strength again. My hands, though calloused, were steady as I brewed my morning tea, the scent of chamomile filling the air like a balm. In the quiet of my simple home, I realized that I had not lost a son, but gained an understanding of my own worth.And in the end, that was a life reclaimed and a lesson well-learned.