She remained silent as he told her of his burdens. Of the scars etched so deep in his heart by those he had loved. Of years of pain, built up and overflowing. Pain that lingered longer than he had ever hoped. And she listened. Intent and open. Taking in his words, his wounds, his sorrows.
How heavy his grief had been. Lathered and layered in guilt. Guilt not just for what he had endured all those years before, but for generations before. Trauma that never laid itself to rest. Only growing with each new branch on the family tree.
But as he spoke, she could see the relief sweep over him. Not completely erasing the burden he bore, but lessening it. For the first time, someone listened. Someone cared.
She smiled with him—sad, but genuine—offering his hand a gentle touch. And though she knew what he had, that grief was something that would never truly go away, she did the best she could. Offering an ear. Offering her time. Offering compassion.
Sometimes, she told herself, that’s all it takes.