The past week has been heavy. Like the kind of days that sit on your chest and let you breathe, but never fully.

We just closed on our second home. A place we’ve dreamt of for a while now. A “Family Home,” whatever that word can still mean in a world that’s bent a little since we lost Kay. The walls are empty now, but I already see birthdays unfolding in the living room, voices echoing off the walls during holiday dinners, laughter curled into corners like candle smoke. It’s all there in my mind, waiting.

But as congratulation texts began rolling in, that quiet ache behind my ribs returned. The house will be beautiful. It will hold love, memories, and celebration. But no matter how much joy we pour into it, there will always be a missing shape. A seat no one can fill.

That truth doesn’t get gentler.

I keep thinking about how much I wish I could reach back into time, even just a few days more before she left us. Fold myself into that version of our life. Wake up slowly. Hold my babies close. Stay longer in those moments that felt small but were everything.

I miss Kay.

Last night Sister called me. Her voice was thin and soft, like it had worn itself out from holding everything in. She said she’s been struggling. That Kay hasn’t left her mind. I heard it in how she spoke. The pauses. The weight.

I told her it’s okay. It really is okay to feel all of it. There’s no way around this kind of heartbreak. You either feel it now, or it waits and makes its own way out later. And I meant it when I reminded her—I’m her mama. Day or dark, the clock doesn’t matter when she needs me.

Some days are just harder. Even when there’s something to be hopeful about. Maybe especially then.

This house is a second beginning. A new place for roots to grow. And maybe love can stretch itself wide enough to carry joy and sadness all at once. Maybe they’ve never really been separate things at all.