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Last night, John and I watched the series finale of Ghosts—and well, I’m not okay.

This is usually true for series finales that end on a heartwarming note. Think of Andy saying, “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them,” or Eleanor finally leaving the afterlife in the Good Place.

Nothing hits me quite like a sad ending, especially when that ending really is the end of the line. Eleanor could never reverse her decision. Andy would never return to 1725 Slough Avenue—especially after taking a shit on David Wallace’s car. The way things are could never be the way they once were, and I find that quite heartbreaking.

If you haven’t seen Ghosts—at least the BBC version—it’s about a young married couple named Mike and Alison, who inherit a dilapidated, historic mansion called Button House. Oh, and it’s haunted. Like really haunted—by Fanny, an Edwardian woman also known as Lady Button; Pat, a youth group leader who was killed by a stray arrow; Thomas, a lovesick poet; Mary, a naive, but quick-witted peasant woman who was burned at the stake; Robin, a caveman; Humphrey, a nobleman who quite literally lost his head; Kitty, a sweet, naive noblewoman played brilliantly by Lolly Adefope; Julian, a pantless politician who died in a sex scandal; James (who is largely only referred to as Captain), a World War II Army captain—and a bunch of Black Plague victims destined for a life of destitute in the basement.

The show follows Alison’s deepening relationship with the ghosts, who evoke the traditional enemies-to-friends story trope. Throughout the series, Alison finds herself a caretaker, not just of the mansion that is always in a state of repair, but of the ghosts who demand she flip pages of books, turn on the telly, and return unrequited love (alright, maybe that’s just Thomas). Toss in financial worries and an almost complete invasion of privacy, and her character exemplifies the true plight of being a caretaker.

By the last season, Alison discovers that she’s pregnant. In the second-to-last episode, she and Mike decide to turn down a multi-million-dollar buyout of their property, but the script changes course in the finale.

After her mother-in-law overstays her seven-week welcome after the birth of baby Mia, Alison finally musters up the courage to say that she and Mike needed a chance to stand on their own two feet—to be the family the three of them now are, and deserve a chance to be.

After immediately thrusting a million demands on Alison after her mother-in-law finally leaves, the ghoulish group realizes that Mike’s mother wasn’t the only thing holding Mike and Alison back from growing: “We can’t leave Alison,” Fanny says earnestly. “But you can.”

You can watch the tearjerker moment here.

And she does, driving the car away from a group of waving ghosts who will undoubtedly return to sharing their favorite meals in Food Group and jumping out of the windows every morning at 6 a.m. Life will go back to the way it was for all of them.

The finale received mixed reviews from viewers. Many felt that the second-to-last episode nicely wrapped up the story. But of course, there were those who wished that the entire group stayed together.

But for me, I think Ghosts had the right ending. Well, the right message anyway: that sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is let them go.

I think back to when my dad was in the hospital, a day or so after finding out he was a candidate for hospice. I wanted him to stay and fight. Look for anything to grab onto, even if it was something as small as the smell of fresh coffee in the morning.

But looking at him, frail in that bed—another hospital stay after a run of extended visits, globs of baby food on his plate and creamed water set down in front of him next to his roomate’s baked turkey slices and goopy mashed potatoes—I had no choice but to stop being so selfish. Because that’s what it was—is—at the end of the day. But let me remind you that there’s nothing wrong with that, either. I’m not selfish for not wanting to lose my dad, for not wanting to greet death and grief, for not wanting to feel the pain I knew was creeping my way. But love, when it turns to self-preservation, is where the line gets tricky. It wasn’t selfish to want to keep him here. But it was selfish to put him through all that discomfort for my benefit.

I had to make the decision to let him go. For my sake—and his.

Reverse psychology always worked on my dad, however, which is why he chose to eat the baby food against better judgment.

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t hold true to what I promised.
I had to love him more than I feared my detested emotions.

In the final ending of Ghosts, that sentiment rang true. They had to love Alison more than they valued not feeling the pain and discomfort that would come from losing her. Of course, that pain never truly fades away. It lingers, and much like a haunted house, it stalks every hallway, creeps every winding staircase, echoes in the still of the evening. It reverberates off walls and comes into view when you least expect to find it. I’d be remiss not to mention all the times my grief sneaks up on me on the brightest days when the sun’s shining and my mood, elevated like a red balloon.

I had to love him more than my desire to maintain my status quo. And love, in all its forms, has always—will always—require sacrifice. It’s what we owe to each other; what we owe to the ones that helped us, that encouraged us, who grabbed the shovel and helped us dig deep to discover our truest selves. With love, there comes pain. They exist as two sides to a coin. I had to love him more than my will to keep my routine, my sanity.

And I did.

In life, you’re never going to get the happy ending because endings aren’t really happy. They’re sad and, at times, incredibly lonely. They are dark periods, times of adjustment and shifting priorities. They leave behind longing. It’s why we cry at the end of movies. It’s why we adopt puppies and why we book another vacation before the plane leaves the runway.

Sure, endings grease the runway for a new beginning. Your cat’s death opens the door to adopting a black kitten. The last page of the book justifies opening another. Life is cyclical like that. And sometimes the beginning is beautiful—like the journey to parenthood for Mike and Alison, or moving to Florida for me and John. In order to start anew, we had to sever the ties with what was holding us back, even if love, especially if love abounds.

I feel sad at the reality that, despite yearly holiday visits, Alison’s relationship with the ghosts will finally end. Unless she passes at Button House, there will come a time when the ghosts wait for the creak of a door that will never swing open.

Isn’t that true for all of us?