A week ago, my 8-year-old daughter, Lily, passed away from cancer. The funeral was as devastating as you’d expect. By the time I got home, I was emotionally drained, but when I pulled into the driveway, I froze. There was a huge tent in my backyard. Bright and circus-like.
I couldn’t understand who would do this. My heart pounded as I pulled back the tent flap. Inside, there was a bundle wrapped in a blanket, just like Lily’s hospital one. My eyes filled with tears. I thought it was some twisted prank.

As I stood there, heart racing and tears blurring my vision, the bundle shifted again. I dropped to my knees, fearing the worst and half-expecting some horrible trick. But then I heard it — a soft, familiar purr.

I couldn’t understand who would do this. My heart pounded as I pulled back the tent flap. Inside, there was a bundle wrapped in a blanket, just like Lily’s hospital one. My eyes filled with tears. I thought it was some twisted prank.

As I stood there, heart racing and tears blurring my vision, the bundle shifted again. I dropped to my knees, fearing the worst and half-expecting some horrible trick. But then I heard it — a soft, familiar purr.

I pulled the blanket back, and there she was: Muffin, Lily’s favorite kitten, curled up snugly, with a little note pinned to the fabric. My hands trembled as I opened the note, written in Lily’s unmistakable, messy handwriting: “For Mommy — So you don’t feel alone.”