It was their home - a place filled with memories and warmth. But after the husband passed away, the institution's policy meant they had to leave within six months. During those uncertain months, we joined them under the same roof, sharing space, stories, and silent hopes. My dad kindly told them they could stay as long as they needed, offering comfort in a difficult time.

In that house, they used to have pig's feet broth stored in big barrels, but now those barrels held water. One day, a lady from their family went to fetch water from one of those barrels. My dad had warned her not to take from that particular barrel until the scent left and the water was usable. But the message was lost somewhere between words and understanding. She told her mother that my dad said they shouldn't use the barrel at all - that only we could, after they had moved on.

What seemed like a small miscommunication soon grew into painful confusion and tension between two families once bonded by friendship and trust. A simple instruction became a source of mistrust, a silent crack in what should have been a shared moment of healing.

This experience opened my eyes to how fragile communication can be - how easily assumptions and misunderstandings can hurt even the closest of relationships. It was a hard lesson in the power of words, the need for patience, and the importance of truly listening when lives and homes intertwine.