Welcome to Life After Lil

The third and final reflection on collective and personal grief and on the love that survives when everything else is lost. Bearing Witness: Anne Frank and the Father Who Returned Alone When Otto Frank stepped off the train back into Amsterdam in June 1945, the city he returned to was both familiar and unrecognizable. The canals still shimmered in the summer light, the bells still rang from the Westerkerk, but the laughter of his wife and daughters was gone. The war had ended, but for Otto, the silence had only just begun. For weeks, he searched. He wrote letters, visited refugee centers, and followed every rumor that his daughters, Margot and Anne, might still be alive. In his pocket, he carried hope like a scrap of paper—folded, worn, almost transparent. But each inquiry ended the same way: a shake of the head, a name on a list, a quiet apology. Eventually, the truth reached him—Anne and Margot had not died in Auschwitz as first reported, but in Bergen-Belsen, of typhus, just wee...

(Part Two in the “Collective Grief” Series) It was raining the day I visited Kamp Vught, a concentration camp outside Amsterdam. Cold, steady rain. Even in my warm layers, I felt the chill settle into my bones. I tried to imagine the prisoners who once stood here — wearing only thin linen clothing, short sleeves in the winter, handed whatever size was available regardless of fit. The thought made the cold sharper somehow, as if my own body remembered a pain it had never known. Walking through the grounds felt like a vigil. Each step carried the weight of the thousands who were forced to live and work here — Jewish families, political prisoners, resistance members, Roma and Sinti people, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and others the Nazis deemed unworthy. The rain fell softly on the earth that once held their fear, their hope, their last breaths. Around me, the trees whispered in the wind, and the nearby river moved with a kind of indifferent grace. The world has healed on the surface, but beneat...

  Introduction This post is the first in a three-part series I’m sharing to coincide with the anniversary of my daughter Lily’s death. While traveling through Europe, I experienced many joyful moments — shopping in Paris, sipping coffee in a Parisian café, riding a canal boat in Amsterdam, and exploring charming cities like Bruges and Ghent. Yet, some places left a lasting weight on my heart. Normandy was one of them. Remembering the Sons of Normandy I arrived at Normandy beaches on a rainy day. Cold and wet, the gray sky pressed down as the rain pummelled the memorials. Water flooded the bunkers, and I imagined the boys who had been here — shivering, afraid, carrying guns they barely understood, unsure if they would survive. Inside the museum, letters from parents to their sons captured ordinary life: a sister’s wedding, what they were having for dinner, small jokes, and snapshots of boys being boys — laughing, messy-haired, alive. These WWII letters from soldiers revealed the s...

We landed in Brussels to crisp fall air and the kind of light that makes everything feel golden. The Grand Place shimmered at dusk, its buildings aglow with twinkling lights. We stopped for French fries, perfectly salted and hot, then couldn’t resist a Liège waffle—warm, caramelized sugar crisping at the edges—a small, sweet comfort in hand as we wandered the cobblestone streets. From there, we traveled south to Luxembourg, a European Vermont filled with hills, color, and quiet beauty. The trees were turning shades of amber and rust, and for a moment, it felt as if we had stepped into a storybook. Our next stops, Bruges and Ghent, carried us deeper into the past—medieval cities of canals, spires, and stories whispered through centuries. Every turn revealed another postcard-perfect view: a reflection in the water, a clock tower framed by clouds, a street musician playing something that made you stop and listen. We then headed to Paris, where we filled our days with tours of Giverny and ...

The Week That Spoke Softly This week reminded me again that life is always speaking to us—if we’re paying attention. It’s been a full week: my husband had a heart procedure, I’m preparing for a trip to Europe, my daughter’s moving to Colorado, and our aging parents need more from us than ever. The weight of responsibility feels constant, and the days blur together in a kind of low-level stress. And then, one night, my dad visited me in a dream. A Quiet Gift I was just as tense in sleep as I’ve been in waking life, but when he appeared—calm and reassuring—everything shifted. He didn’t say much, just handed me a doll with dark hair to hold. As I hugged it, the stress melted away. A simple, quiet gift of peace. Thank you, Dad. I miss how you used to handle things—how you held steady when life was anything but. But I think you still do, just from somewhere I can’t see. Coffee, Conversation, and Connection Later this week, I reconnected with an old friend. We hadn’t seen each other in years...

🌊 Coffee with the Waves This week the hubs and I finally went camping — a trip we’d planned for months and looked forward to, even though the timing couldn’t have been worse. Between home projects, doctor appointments, and caring for his mom (whose needs are growing by the day), life has been… a lot. Add in a few tricky family dynamics, and we were both running on fumes. So when we finally hit the road, it felt like one long exhale. The weather was perfect — blue skies, golden sunsets, and ocean breezes that carried the sound of waves right to our campsite. The clam chowder was creamy, the marshmallows were charred and black (just how I like them), and for a few days, the world felt beautifully still. One of the biggest highlights? Meeting up with our son. We’d just dropped him off at grad school a couple of weeks ago, and the transition has had its ups and downs — for both of us. Seeing him again, laughing and joking like always, filled my heart in a way I didn’t realize I needed...

We put so much emphasis on milestones. Graduation photos lined up in neat rows on the mantel, the first day of a new job, the car packed to the brim and pulling out of the driveway. These are the moments we mark and celebrate, the big posts along the road. But I’m learning that it’s not only the milestones that shape us. It’s the pause between them — this new empty nest season, the strange, unsettled space where one chapter has closed but the next hasn’t fully begun. Coping With an Empty Nest Pause My son has been away at grad school for just a week, and yes, I may have texted him every single day. My daughter left to visit her boyfriend before starting her first nursing job out of state — a preview of the leave-taking that’s coming. At home, it’s just my husband and me. He has football season to keep him happy; I make plans with friends. We’re learning to fill our days differently, to shift our caregiving roles into something else. Soon we’ll go camping. In a few months, I’ll head to ...