I wouldn’t want on my worst enemy the suffering of outliving your own child. My entire existence was broken in two when Lily was taken from me when I was just thirteen years old. There was the excruciating period following her protracted illness, and there was the period preceding it. The day she died, a fundamental part of my soul died. I maintained her bedroom precisely as she had left it for months. Her pink sneakers were sitting by the entrance, their toes pointing inward as if she had kicked them off in a breathless rush, and her gray sweater was still hanging over the back of her desk chair. She was yelling at me not to be upset.
However, she never returned. The days were one long, oppressive gray. I stopped keeping an eye on the time, stopped taking calls, and shut myself off from the outside world. My life had completely stopped, although the busy activity outside my flat continued. Then, one calm Tuesday morning, the quiet was broken by my phone.
I let the ringing reverberate while I gazed at the bright screen for a considerable amount of time. Before I saw the caller ID, I was on the verge of letting it go to voicemail. It came from Lily’s middle school. As I swiped to respond, an illogical wave of optimism ignited in my chest.
A woman whispered, “Mrs. Carter?” This is Lily’s English instructor, Ms. Holloway. I apologize for calling you so abruptly, but you must come to the school.
The weight of her remarks caused my knees to abruptly crumble. My voice faltered as I managed to ask, “Why?”
On the other end, there was a long delay. Something was left in Lily’s locker. It was only now that we learned about it. Your name is written on it.
I can’t even recall locking the front door, getting my car keys, or driving over.
Without my daughter, the school felt so odd. With the exception of Ms. Holloway and Mr. Bennett, the school counselor, who were both waiting close to Lily’s former locker, the hallway was silent and empty. They had puffy, red eyes. The sound of my footfall on the linoleum was too loud. When I got to them, Ms. Holloway came forward and gave me a little envelope. As I accepted it, my hands trembled furiously. Two simple words were written on the front in Lily’s tidy, recognizable handwriting. For Mom.
Fearful of what might be inside, I carefully tore it open. There was just one note in my hand. “I kept one promise a secret from you,” it said. However, I did it out of love for you. A set of keys and the address to a modest storage container a few blocks from our apartment were hidden inside the note.
I looked up, gasping for air and completely perplexed. I muttered, “I don’t understand.”
Ms. Holloway put a reassuring touch on my shoulder. Lily requested me to protect this for you. When you saw what was inside, you will understand, she continued.
The storage facility was positioned between a boarded-up hardware store and a laundry. I had walked by the building numerous times without ever noticing it. As I rolled up the metal door and unlocked the unit, my hands trembled. It looked completely deserted at first glance. However, as my eyes adapted to the low light, I saw a tidy pile of cardboard boxes pressed up against the rear wall. My name was printed in big, strong letters across the front of every single one.
My knees almost gave out. After a lengthy period of hesitation, I went for the first box and removed the tape. Numerous handwritten letters were found inside. They were all meticulously classified by category. When you are unable to get out of bed, open. On your birthday, open. When you’re upset with me, be open. When you forget the sound of my voice, open. Tears clouded my view. A tiny, silver digital voice recorder was located at the very top of the box.
I snatched it up with shaking fingers and hit play. The peaceful room was filled with my daughter’s soft, clear voice.
Hello, Mom. This indicates that I was unable to stay as long as we had intended.
Her speech was like a physical wave to me. I slumped to the chilly concrete floor, covering my face with both hands and crying violently as my breath stuck in my throat. God, Lily. What have you done?
After what seemed like hours of sitting in the silent unit, I realized that I couldn’t do this on my own. I took out my phone and made a call to the one person I could truly trust. I stopped crying, Judy. You are necessary to me. I’m at a storage facility that Lily set up prior to her death.
Without hesitation, she said, “I’m on my way.” My sister was able to depart whenever needed because she ran a little salon across town. Judy saw the boxes and paused in the doorway when she got there. She exhaled, “Oh, honey.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the piles of my daughter’s insight, so I muttered, “She did all this.” As I sobbed, Judy came inside and put her arms around me. She assured me that we would overcome this together.
The second box, called Care Plans, was the next one we looked at. There were basic meal options, well-printed calendars, and gentle reminders to go outside and get some fresh air. A couple cookbooks had sticky notes with handwritten phrases like “Eat something warm today, I will feel better knowing you did” placed between the pages.
I sobbed, holding one of the books to my chest as my baby considered everything.
“People You Will Need” was written on the third box. It had a comprehensive list of names, including those of Lily’s instructors, neighbors, and the mother of Ava, her closest friend. She had written a small note next to each name, outlining their significance and when I should get in touch with them.
Judy whispered, “It’s obvious she didn’t want you to feel alone.”
Memories You Will Forget First was the title of the fourth box. Opening it disproved my belief that such a thing could exist. It had pictures of Lily laughing in the kitchen, reading while sitting cross-legged on the floor, and baking with me that I had never seen before. We chuckled for half an hour after reading a letter that said, “This was the day you burned the pancakes.” I let forth a feeble, sorrowful laugh. That day had entirely slipped my mind.
She didn’t, Judy said with a soft smile.
The Hard Truth was the label on the last package. I was hesitant to open it, but it included a large journal that described Lily’s last few months. She wrote about her doctor’s appointments, the days she felt weaker, and how, despite my best efforts to cover it, she could see the terror in my face.
I breathed; she knew. Judy gave a faint nod. Lily had written about how I was unable to accept the truth of losing her, so I used my optimism as a barrier and insisted that everything would be alright.
I said, “Lily did not want me to fall apart,” and for the first time since her death, I allowed myself to cry uncontrollably and buried my face in my sister’s shoulder.
As my tears eventually stopped, I became aware of something strange. I said, “Judy, how did you know which storage unit to come to?” I never provided you with the address.
Judy smiled softly. You took a long time to ask. For months, Lily and I collaborated to plan everything. She was adamant about it. I helped pay the remaining balance after she paid for the unit with her birthday money and her earnings from babysitting. I promised her that I wouldn’t tell you until you were ready.
I exhaled tremblingly. She was correct. Up until today, I wasn’t prepared.
Judy pointed to the last envelope, marked “Last One,” which was lying aside from the other boxes. There was a tiny video drive inside. We watched the video in my sister’s car after she took her laptop out of her bag.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed and staring straight at the camera, Lily materialized on the screen. “Hello, Mommy,” she said. You must have stayed stuck longer than I had anticipated if you are watching this. You are someone I know. Most likely, you won’t leave the apartment unless absolutely necessary. You’re not taking calls. So pay attention. I need you to help me with something. Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean you have to give up on life. You will return to my school and work as a library volunteer. A child who feels invisible is always sitting by themselves in there. Mom, go find one of them. Assist them as you have always assisted me. Don’t do it for me. You are still here, so do it.
The footage turned black. For a few minutes, we sat in silence. I muttered, “I think she just planned my next move.”
My sister agreed that it sounded just like Lily.
That night, we took the boxes home. We opened them slowly, grinning and crying as we read each letter. I got up before the sun came up the following morning. I briefly experienced the typical weight of grief, but then I saw the letter that said “Open when you cannot get out of bed.” I whispered, “I’m getting up,” after reading her morning message.
I immediately headed to Lily’s old middle school. The receptionist glanced up in shock as I entered through the main doors. I signed in and went down the hall, telling her that I was here to visit the librarian.
A few students were strewn about the library as I walked in. A young girl sitting by herself in the corner with her gray hoodie pulled up over her head caught my attention. When I saw that she was wearing an almost exact replica of Lily’s old hoodie, my heart missed a beat.
I didn’t think twice this time. I went over and took a seat.
“Hey,” I said softly. Would you mind if I sat down?
Startled, she looked up and nodded. She smiled shyly when I inquired what she was reading. Suddenly, there was a change in my soul. It seems that Lily had given me a purpose, preparing me for life without her. I was making progress for the first time since my daughter passed away, and it felt just like what she had always wanted.