The day after our daughter Lily’s funeral, my husband, Mark, insisted we clear out her room. No hesitation. No mourning. Just boxes and garbage bags. I stood frozen as he tossed away her favorite books, her drawings, even the stuffed bear she clung to during chemo. It felt like he was erasing her—like grief was something to be cleaned up.
But when he left the room for a moment, I found something tucked behind her dresser: a small notebook, wrapped in a scarf. Inside were pages of Lily’s handwriting—letters to me, to Mark, and one that shattered everything.
She wrote about the nights she cried alone, how she overheard Mark saying he couldn’t handle her illness anymore. She knew he was distant, but she forgave him. Her final entry was a plea: “Please don’t forget me. Not like this.”
I confronted Mark. He broke down, admitting he couldn’t bear the pain, so he tried to bury it. But Lily’s words made him face what he was running from. We didn’t throw away her things.
We built a memory corner in our home—a place where her spirit lives, not just in photos, but in the truth she left behind.
