”Can I help you?” ”Sorry. I grew up in this house. I was reminiscing.” ”Wanna come in?” ”Better not.” ”Not all good memories, eh?” ”My mom died in the living room.” ”Wow.” ”Don’t worry; she’d never haunt a place.” ”Wait, what?” ”Then again, I was 6. I didn't know her that well.”
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As someone who's mom also died in the back den at age 12, wanna make a real estate scam where we tell people their house is haunted. Buy low, sell high.
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I have too much compassion for anyone who still lives in my old hometown.
End of conversation
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This story struck me in particular because it took me back to my childhood home, where my own mother committed suicide. Yes, I am sad. Yes, I am angry. Yes, I am bitter.
I can definitely empathize.