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.
On the day of my daughter’s funeral? It felt like a cruel joke.
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.
ut then the bundle moved.
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.”
I choked back a sob. It felt like Lily had left me one last gift, a reminder of her gentle, giving spirit. The tent, brightly colored and warm, wasn’t just any tent — it was the play tent we’d set up together on her last good day, when the sun was shining and for a brief moment, laughter still filled our backyard.
My husband appeared behind me, his face as worn as mine. He knelt beside me, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I couldn’t leave it in the garage,” he whispered. “She wanted you to have this. She loved it here.”
We sat there together in that little tent, Muffin purring between us, feeling Lily’s presence everywhere. For the first time since her passing, the crushing grief lifted just a bit, replaced by the tiniest sliver of peace. This was Lily’s way of telling us she’d always be with us — in our hearts, in our memories, and in the simple joys we’d shared.
In that moment, under the bright colors of that tent, I realized something: grief may last forever, but so does love. And Lily’s love, like this tent, would always be a shelter for me, even in the hardest times.
Lily may be gone, but she left behind more than just memories. She left her spirit, her joy, and her endless love. And sitting there, I knew she would always be with us, in every sunset, every soft breeze, and every little purr from Muffin.
