People think loss happens when something is taken.
It doesn’t.
Loss happens when you accept the value someone else assigns to what you’ve built.
Robert tried to reduce fifty-two years into paperwork.
And for a moment, it worked.
But paper holds ownership—
not meaning.
What I built never disappeared.
It simply stopped belonging to him.
Now, when I sit outside in the evening, watching the light move across the fields, I don’t think about what I lost.
I think about what remained.
Peace.
Clarity.
And the quiet realization that the moment someone believes they’ve taken everything from you…
