Marrying Rachel meant becoming part of her family, including her daughters Sophie and Mia. Their home was full of warmth, except for the basement—a place the girls avoided and Rachel never talked about.
One night, Sophie asked me quietly if I wondered what was in the basement. I joked, but she wasn’t amused. Later, Mia whispered, “Daddy doesn’t like loud noises.” Rachel had only told me her ex-husband was gone.
A few days later, Mia showed me a drawing with a gray figure in a box. “That’s Daddy,” she said. “He lives in the basement.” I was shocked. Rachel shared that he died two years ago from cancer and that explaining death to young kids was difficult.
A week later, Sophie asked me to see Daddy. We went to the basement where an urn sat with drawings and toys. The girls greeted it gently, and I told them he’d be proud.
Rachel hadn’t expected the girls to remember. We made a special place in the living room for the urn, surrounded by photos and flowers.
Rachel told the girls, “Daddy is in our stories and love.” Mia wanted to say hi every day, and Rachel agreed. Sundays became a time for sharing memories.
I never tried to replace him but helped keep his memory alive in their hearts.
