A Dollhouse of Memories

[Lulu_75]

The sun was setting, casting a warm golden hue across the living room, where remnants of laughter and creativity lingered in the air. I sat on the floor, surrounded by tiny pieces of wood, paint pots, and miniature furniture that once held so much promise. It was here that Angge and I had spent countless hours together, lost in our own world of imagination and artistry. I miss you so much, Angge. 

Our shared passion for dollhouses had blossomed into something beautiful. It started innocently enough—a simple idea to build a beachside bungalow for my grandmother, her great-grandmother. The excitement bubbled over as we drove from Phoenix, AZ to Decatur, AL to deliver it personally. That trip was more than just a drive; it was an adventure filled with music blasting from the speakers and Angge’s infectious laughter echoing through the car. We sang along to our favorite songs, her voice harmonizing perfectly with mine as we created memories that would last a lifetime.

In July of 2023, we embarked on our second project—a dollhouse much bigger than the first. This one required more detail and compromise; we debated over types of flooring, interior paint colors, and wallpaper patterns like seasoned architects. Despite our busy lives—school for her and work for me—we always carved out time to work on it together. Those moments were sacred; they were ours.

But everything changed on August 21, 2023. That day marked the end of life as I knew it—the last time I laid eyes on my precious daughter, the last time I kissed her and hugged her tightly. The world shifted beneath my feet; dark clouds rolled in, bringing despair and uncertainty that felt insurmountable.

Weeks passed in a blur of grief. Each day I would glance at our unfinished dollhouse project and feel an overwhelming urge to destroy it—to erase every trace of what we had built together because it hurt too much to see it sit there without her. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t bring myself to do it; I couldn’t be the one to dismantle what we had created together. So instead, I packed everything up carefully and tucked it away in the very back of our storage unit—where it would remain hidden from sight but never truly forgotten.

As the new year approached, my husband surprised me with a suggestion that caught me off guard: “Angge’s birthday is coming up,” he said gently. “I think she would really love it if you worked on the dollhouse again. I can help if you like.”

His words hung in the air like a delicate thread connecting me back to Angge. Daydreaming often became my escape; I pictured her next to me as I slowly pieced together this dollhouse that held so many memories—the laughter we shared while painting walls or arranging furniture just right.

But more often than not, grief would overwhelm me like a tidal wave crashing against a fragile shore. In those moments when sadness threatened to swallow me whole, I'd find myself retreating into the closet—a small sanctuary where I could be alone with my pain. It was my pain; it was my connection to Angge—and no one was going to take that from me.

Yet as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, something began to shift within me. The thought of working on that dollhouse started to feel less like an obligation and more like an opportunity—a way to honor Angge’s memory rather than erase it. Perhaps this project could become a tribute to her spirit—a celebration of all those beautiful moments we shared.

So one quiet afternoon in February, with trembling hands but a heart full of hope, I pulled out all the materials from storage—the tiny pieces that once felt like shards of my broken heart now seemed like building blocks for healing. My husband joined me on the floor as we laid out everything just as Angge and I had done countless times before.

As we began assembling walls and painting rooms together, tears streamed down my face—not just from sorrow but also from joy as memories flooded back: Angge’s laughter ringing through the air  or how she’d get lost in thought while arranging tiny furniture pieces just so.

With each stroke of paint and each piece glued into place, I felt Angge beside me—her spirit guiding my hands as if she were whispering encouragement in my ear: “You can do this, Mom.” And for those moments suspended in time between past and present, grief transformed into love—a love that transcended loss.

I miss you so much, Angge—but today feels different. Today feels like a step toward healing as we build this dollhouse together again—one piece at a time—creating new memories while cherishing old ones until they intertwine seamlessly into something beautiful once more.

And maybe just maybe—this unfinished project will become a symbol not only of what was lost but also of what remains: an everlasting bond between a mother and daughter that even death cannot sever. 

 

[WilderPappy]

Lulu..I get it. It's only been 2 months since we lost our Wilder. Being 16 months old and living with us you can only imagine what our house looked like at the time he left us. The main den was his. Full of toys,books,stuffed animals, everything a child played and interacted with every day. His room is much the same, changing table, crib, rocking chair chests full of his clothes etc. The memories and just the thought of anything he touched being put away is heartbreaking. These are the connections we have left. Being our grandchild there will be others that come along we hope. None will replace him or his things. My wife cleaned the den up of his things and put them in his room. The main thing to me is that it now looks as empty as our souls feel. I hope to at some point to be able to see and touch these things and feel sadness but also the joy or the experiences we had interacting with these things. Good, treasured memories rather that of pure sadness. I have a video, many, of him with his ring stacker. Every time he would get a ring on the pole we would yell with excitement and praise only to have him jump up and down with excitement. Treasured memory that kills me to see and think about. His ring set is in a cabinet in my den. Sitting there for him and him alone. No other will ever touch it. At least that's how I feel now. 

Things are just that in a sense and hold no memory but when the thing is connected to a loved one who has left too soon, they take on another meaning. I glad you are able to interact with the dollhouse you two loved together. I hope someday to be able to do the same with his things. There is nothing more than I would want or desire, but I am unable to even entertain the thought as of now. Tears come and go and come again. This is our life as well as yours and all that have lost their kids no matter what age it seems. I look forward to the point in this hell that I can be like you and come to grips with it and use these things to heal on some level. 

Thanks for sharing!