I thought I’d prepared myself to say goodbye. People told me the end would be peaceful, and maybe it was for Lily. For me, it felt like being dropped through the floor. We buried my eight-year-old today, and I moved through the service like a ghost—hugged, spoken to, barely answering. I drove home in silence because music felt like a lie.
I was still gripping the steering wheel when I saw it: a tent in my backyard.
Not a camping tent, a full splash of color—red and yellow stripes, little pennants flicking in the wind. For a second I honestly wondered if grief can make you hallucinate. I blinked, rubbed my eyes. The thing didn’t budge.