I hadn’t.
I wrapped it around my shoulders and prepared tea.
The townhouse no longer felt empty.
Photographs decorated the walls.
Books filled the shelves.
Rebecca and I had found a dining table at an estate sale.
There were plants I struggled to keep alive.
Shoes beside the back door.
On the kitchen windowsill, a chipped blue mug Lily painted at five held pencils.
I’d learned that moving forward didn’t require erasing her.
That had once been my greatest fear.
During the first months after her death, any happiness felt disloyal.
The first time Rebecca made me laugh, I immediately cried afterward.
The first morning I slept through the night, guilt followed me until lunch.
Eventually, grief counselor Dr. Evans told me something I later wrote down.
“Loving your daughter and surviving your daughter are not opposites.”
It took months to believe her.
I returned to work part-time.
Twice monthly,
