And me? I found a reason to get up every morning. To feed them, clean their space, to hold them, and to cradle them the way Lily used to cradle her dolls, singing lullabies she made up on the spot.
A few nights later, I walked into Lily’s room for the first time without holding my breath. I picked up the half-finished bracelet she had been making for me and tied it around my wrist, even though it barely fit. I sat at her desk. I opened her sunflower sketchbook.
And I smiled.
I sat at her desk.
Every tiny heartbeat in that basket downstairs reminded me of her. It was like a whisper from Lily herself. It was not a goodbye, just a reminder that even in grief, even in the wreckage, love finds a way to stay.
I sat by the window that night with the yellow sweater in my lap and whispered, “I’ll take care of them, baby. Just like you did.”
Every tiny heartbeat
in that basket downstairs
reminded me of her.
Baxter came and rested his head on my feet, and the mother cat purred louder than her babies nestled in close.
That was the first night I slept without nightmares.
And in the morning, when the sun poured through the windows, and the kittens stirred, it felt — for just a moment — like Lily was still here. Not in a ghostly, sorrowful way, but in the quiet kindness she had left behind.
That was the first night
I slept without nightmares.
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