Donna insists Iris and Neal have mourned long enough, so she clears out their late daughter’s room without permission. As Iris breaks down, Neal searches the boxes with growing desperation, making it clear that one missing object matters more than everything else.
It’s been eight months since we lost Lily.
Even now, saying those words inside my head feels wrong. They sound too simple for something that broke our entire life apart.
Eight months.
As if grief could be measured in neat little squares on a calendar.
Lily was seven years old. She loved purple socks, strawberry pancakes, and books about animals that could talk. She laughed with her whole body, tilting her head back until she nearly lost her balance.
Our house used to feel full because of her. After she died, the silence seemed to settle into every room.
Especially hers.
Neal and I still hadn’t touched her room.
Her bed remained unmade, just as she had left it. A tiny sweater hung over the back of her desk chair. Her crayons were scattered beside a half-finished drawing of three people holding hands beneath an enormous yellow sun.
Every time my husband or I talked about packing up her things, we’d end up saying the same thing.
“Not yet.”
Sometimes I said it first. Other times, Neal did.
Once, about three months after the funeral, I found him standing in Lily’s doorway at two in the morning. He was holding one of her stuffed rabbits against his chest.
“We should probably start sorting through some of this,” he whispered.
I looked at his face and saw that he did not believe his own words.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
TAP ” READ MORE ” 👇
