Dear Luciana,

I lived in that house for twelve years. I met Mommy right before I moved in, so by the time she died, every room was hers. The furniture she picked, the paint colors she argued for, the random Target finds she swore we needed. The whole place was a museum I never agreed to curate. I wanted out almost immediately. Every corner was a trigger. Walking past the kitchen felt like visiting a grave. But wanting to leave meant admitting I couldn’t handle being surrounded by her anymore, which felt like the first step toward forgetting her.

Except you can’t just leave a dead person’s house. You have to go through it. Every drawer, every shelf, every closet she stuffed with things I didn’t know we owned. Each item is a tiny decision: keep, donate, trash. And every single one feels like a betrayal no matter which pile it lands in. Throwing out her old magazines feels like throwing out a piece of her. Keeping a broken picture frame because she bought it feels insane. There’s no system for this. There’s no right answer. You just stand there holding a red candle from HomeGoods and wonder if this is the one that matters.

The cheapest, dumbest looking thing in the house. It lived in the back of the closet for years. I used it when I asked your mommy to marry me, during Covid, when I couldn’t take her anywhere. I lit it on the dining room table, got down on one knee in our apartment, and she said yes.

I kept it for a specific reason. Your mom had opinions about home decor. Strong ones. Most of the stuff I picked out, she very politely tolerated… by saying no.

I’d buy a lamp and three weeks later there would be a new lamp. She was sneaky.

But the candle, she liked. One of the only things I picked on my own that she legitimately thought looked good.

I threw it out.

I picked it up, held it for a second, thought, this is from when I proposed. Thought, she liked this one. Thought, the wick is barely used. Then I dropped it in the trash bag.

I don’t even know why.

The candle had more meaning than half the stuff I’m keeping. The candle that contains the actual moment I asked her to be my wife. In the bag. Tied off. Out to the curb. If I didn’t need it for years, why do I need it now that she is dead?

Should I have kept it? Should I keep everything?

The guilt is the part nobody warns you about. Not the packing, not the sorting, not the logistics. The guilt of wanting to leave the place where your life together happened. Like the house itself is watching you walk out. I needed to go because staying was killing me slowly, but going felt like I was the one doing the leaving this time. She didn’t get a choice. Now I’m making one for both of us, and I hate it.

Besitos,

Daddy