Later that day, I noticed Lily drawing. Her picture showed our family in colorful stick figures—Claire, Emma, me… and one figure outlined in gray, boxed off from the rest. “That’s Daddy,” she said. “In the basement.”
The thought stayed with me. That night, I asked Claire about it directly. She hesitated, then said, “There’s nothing down there but damp air and spiders.” When I mentioned the girls’ comments, she sighed. “He passed two years ago. I didn’t want them to dwell on it, so I kept things simple.”
I understood. Still, something didn’t sit right.
A few days later, while Claire was at work and the girls were home resting, Emma came to me. “Do you want to visit Daddy?” she asked softly. Lily stood beside her, holding her stuffed rabbit. “Mommy keeps him in the basement.”
Curious and concerned, I followed them. The stairs creaked beneath us, and the air grew cooler as we descended. In the corner of the basement was a small table, carefully arranged with toys and drawings. At its center was a simple urn.
“Hi, Daddy!” Lily said brightly. Emma looked at me. “We come here so he doesn’t feel lonely.”
The moment touched something deep in me. I knelt and hugged them both. “He’s always with you—in your hearts, in your memories. And this place you’ve made for him is beautiful.”
That evening, I told Claire. She grew quiet, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know they were still going down there,” she whispered. “I thought putting the urn away would help them move forward.”
“You were doing your best,” I said gently. “They just needed time.”
The next day, we brought the urn upstairs, placing it among our family photos and surrounding it with the girls’ artwork. Claire sat down with Emma and Lily and explained gently, “He’s not really in that urn. He’s in the love we carry, the stories we share.”
“Can we still say hi to him?” Lily asked.
“Always,” Claire said with a smile through her tears.
That Sunday, we lit a candle beside the urn and began a new tradition. The girls shared memories, Claire told stories about dancing and singing in the kitchen, and I listened—grateful, not to replace, but to help carry the love forward.
And that, I realized, was more than enough.