Welcome to Life After Lil

​ This week my husband flew to Denver to visit our daughter, and I stayed home. After losing Lily, these kinds of split trips carry their own quiet layers — love for the child who is here, longing for the one who isn’t, and the strange reality of how a house can feel both too full and too empty at the same time. This was my week alone in it. And if I’m honest? I loved having the house to myself. There’s something about being alone in your own space that lets you hear your own energy again. When you live with other people—even people you love deeply—your energy blends. Which is beautiful… and also a lot. The first morning, I dropped him at the airport at 4 a.m. and crawled back into bed. I slept until 10. Stayed in my pajamas all day. Ate Kraft mac and cheese—a childhood favorite—and watched my guilty pleasure reality shows. It felt indulgent and simple and exactly right. The next day, I swung the other direction: visited my mom, lunch with a friend, dinner at Mary’s. I left...

​ The Drive to Pasadena When you’ve lost a child, you become hyper-aware of the ones who are still here. Their hurt registers more sharply. Their silence sounds louder. Their need doesn’t have to be spoken for you to hear it. That’s what happened last weekend, when one phone call from my son led us to pack a bag and drive hundreds of miles—just to show up. The Call It started with a phone call last Friday night. Our son, who’s in grad school, was staying late at the lab, and the whole weekend loomed ahead of him: studying, work, chores, grocery shopping—adulting. I think he just couldn’t bear it. I don’t think he even knew that when he called—he just wanted connection, a familiar voice. But as we talked, I could feel my concern growing. Underneath it all, I sensed he didn’t need advice or a pep talk. He needed to see some friendly faces. I hung up without saying anything to him and looked at my husband. He said, “I’m on it. I think we can drive to Southern Cal from Northern Cal—a six-...