A week ago, my 8-year-old daughter, Lily, passed away from cancer.
The funeral was as devastating as you’d expect. By the time I got home,
I was emotionally drained, but when I pulled into the driveway, I froze. There was a huge tent in my backyard. Bright and circus-like.
I couldn’t understand who would do this. My heart pounded as I pulled back
the tent flap. Inside, there was a bundle wrapped in a blanket,
just like Lily’s hospital one. My eyes filled with tears. I thought it was some twisted prank.
As I stood there, heart racing and tears blurring my vision,
the bundle shifted again. I dropped to my knees, fearing the worst and half-expecting
some horrible trick. But then I heard it — a soft, familiar purr.
I pulled the blanket back, and there she was: Muffin, Lily’s favorite kitten,
curled up snugly, with a little note pinned to the fabric. My hands trembled
as I opened the note, written in Lily’s unmistakable, messy handwriting: “For Mommy — So you don’t feel alone.”
