A house holds more than walls and windows. It holds the rhythm of lives once lived within it—laughter echoing down hallways, tears soaked into pillowcases, quiet routines that once felt ordinary but now feel sacred in their absence.
Every room tells a story. Some loud and joyful. Others, tender and unfinished.
Our home still carries your story, Lil. It’s stitched into the worn spots on the couch, the smudged handprints on the walls, the way sunlight spills across your bed just right. And lately, we’ve been asking ourselves: How do we hold all that love and memory while also making space to breathe, to move, to live in the now?
This week, we finally completed one home project we’d been putting off for a long time. And your presence showed up in the most unexpected way.
A Time Capsule in the Walls
We just finished renovating the master bath. (And when I say “we,” I mostly mean your dad—he’s the muscle behind these makeovers.)
It’s painted a cheerful sunshine yellow now. Bright. Awake. Alive.
While removing an old built-in shelf he’d crafted years ago, we discovered something tucked behind it—a tiny time capsule. A drawing your brother made in 2010, when he was seven. Stick figures of all of us.
Next to your figure, he wrote: “13 years and 6 months.” Because at that age, the months mattered so much.
Next to your dad: “hard worker.”
For me: “good personality.” (I’ll take it.)
Your twin sister’s label? Blank. And true to form, she gave him a hard time about it. Classic sibling moment.
The fact that your dad tucked that drawing away melted me—a forgotten slice of life from a time when everything was noisy and messy and beautifully full. The paper smelled faintly musty from being hidden behind the wall, but the ink was still bold, like the memories.
When we were a family of five, not four.
Repurposing Your Room
Now, we’re turning to your room.
We’ve put it off for 123 weeks. That’s not a metaphor. That’s how long it’s been.
It’s hard—so hard—to let go of what that room was: your space. A place so alive with you that just walking in made me feel closer.
I remember the nights I curled up next to you under your favorite pretty pink picture blanket of your favorite people. Feeling your warmth, your little body next to mine. You’d giggle and slowly nudge me out with your feet, with a softly determined, “Go!”—my little bed hog.
The endless outfit debates. Your vetoes. Your favorite soft pants.
So many clothes. People loved to buy you things; you looked adorable in everything.
After you passed, well-meaning friends offered to help us go through it all. But your dad and I said no—without hesitation. We weren’t ready to touch a thing.
And so your room became a kind of altar.
Slippers by the bed. Robes still on their hooks. Your daily schedule posted on the wall. A framed picture of Victor Newman from The Young and the Restless—of course. (I always thought you loved him because he reminded you of Grandpa.)
Your ashes stayed on top of your dresser, your photo above. Every morning, Dad said hello. Every night, goodnight. I used the room as a sanctuary—for therapy, for prayer, for closeness.
But now… we’re gently, slowly transforming it into a guest bedroom.
Letting Go, Holding On
We’ve sorted your clothes. I donated many bags—but kept just as many. My plan is to make memory blankets. Something warm. Something that still holds you.
We picked new fabric. Chose a new paint color. The lavender walls are becoming Palm Desert beige—a blank canvas for whatever comes next.
You always loved cheerful colors. You made it clear: no black, ever. I never knew if you liked the paisley prints or the way your name hung above your bed—you couldn’t tell me with words. But I think you were happy, as long as it was bright.
Now we’re painting over Lavender Lily.
And I keep asking myself: Are we erasing you?
Because that’s what it can feel like—like changing the room is a kind of betrayal. Like moving forward means moving away.
But maybe… maybe it’s not erasure.
Maybe it’s evolution.
Maybe love doesn’t stay trapped in old paint or fabric or floorboards. Maybe it grows with us.
Continuing Bonds
Grief doesn’t end. Love doesn’t either. It just carries differently.
Maybe repurposing your room is part of that—not a goodbye, but a shift. A new way to love you. A way to keep you not just in one room, but in every corner of this home—and every beat of our lives.
You will never leave this house. You’re in its breath. Its energy. Us.
It’s not forgetting.
It’s just… making room for what’s next.
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