We never shut her door.

Isabella’s room was picture perfect.

Pink, yellow, and green—flowered wallpaper blooming across the walls.
A pint-sized yellow chair with white piping sat in the corner like a throne.

It was perfect.
She was perfect.

When my daughter died, my older kids were just 8 and 9—her biggest fans and fiercest protectors. Her death was seismic. It changed everything. But the love never left.

We never shut her door.

• Robin McAllister

When she died, my older kids were just 8 and 9—her biggest fans and fiercest protectors. Her death was seismic. It changed everything. But the love never left.

We never shut her door.
The kids would still go in and play sometimes. And sometimes, I’d lie on her bed and breathe in the scent of her pillow until one day, I couldn’t smell her anymore.

Two years passed.
We were expecting another baby. That baby would need a room.
Her room.

It was only then that we packed it up.

Three of my closest friends came over.
We opened the drawers. Folded the clothes. Gently placed them in bins, alongside her favorite toys.
They all still live in the storage space in our basement—pieces of her, preserved.

Here’s what I want to say:

No one gets to tell you when it’s time.
Not a well-meaning neighbor.
Not a grief book.
Not the calendar.

If leaving the room untouched brings you comfort, let it stay.
If walking past the door each day brings fresh pain, then maybe it’s time, not to erase them, but to evolve.

There is no right way to do this.
There’s only your way.
And that is more than enough.

Even now, years later, she’s always here.
Photos about the house…

Ladybug trinkets tucked into surprising places.

Tiny signs. Everyday reminders.

Proof that love doesn’t vanish.

It stays. It adapts. It lives with us.