Page 105 of From Maybe to Baby

He looks up at me with big eyes. His mother’s eyes. And my stomach goes into a twist, the same twist I thought I’d live with for the rest of my life after Genny died.

“Well, did you read it?” I ask.

He scrunches his face at me like I’m clueless. “No. I’m only four, Dad.”

Right. Guess I am clueless.

He edges closer to the journal, curious but cautious. We don't usually dig into Genny's stuff together. Maybe that's been my fault—trying too hard to preserve everything exactly as it was.

"Will you read it to me, Dad?"

I hesitate. Not because I'm worried about what's in it—Genny wasn’t one for keeping secrets. But I guess I want to hold onto this, like it will bring me closer to her if I don’t share it with anyone.

Which is a stupid thought.

"Sure. Go get your sister."

Jace appears in record time, probably glad for an excuse to abandon her own room-cleaning project, which pretty much consists of moving her piles of dolls from one corner of the room to the other. They both settle in like it's story time, even though it's the middle of the day and we're sitting on Lukas's bed holding a connection to my deceased wife and their mother, like it’s the treasure that it is.

“What is that?” Jace asks, pointing.

“It’s Mommy’s book. I was hiding it. But then Dad found it,” Lukas says.

What do you say to that?

“Okay, let’s take a look,” I say, flipping pages to something appropriate for a three- and four-year-old. "Here's one from when you were little. Your mom wrote about how Lukas tried to teach Jace how to crawl out of her crib."

"Did it work?" Lukas perks up.

We both look at Jace, who nods with enthusiasm.

Okay then.

We flip through more pages. Genny documented everything—first steps, first words, first temper tantrums. But it's the later entries that catch my eye. The ones near the end.

"'Love isn't about fear,'" I read out loud, more to myself than the kids. "'It's about being brave enough to choose joy. To risk hurt. To let your heart stay open.'"

"Ooooh,” Luke murmurs.

“Do you know what that means, buddy?” I ask.

He shrugs. “No.”

That’s what I thought.

We spend a few minutes flipping more pages. Not the serious parts—they don't need that. But the parts where Genny wrote about her hopes for them. Her dreams. Her last few notes about how proud she was of them. And me. And the family.

After they're in bed, I tackle the photos. They're everywhere—on walls, on shelves, watching our lives like some kind of shrine. Gloria gave me a memory box months ago, said I'd know when to use it.

As much as I hate to admit it, since we’re not on the best terms at the moment, given her trying to snag custody of my children and all, it's time.

I put a few photos in the box. I’m not erasing Genny—no, never. It’s just that seeing her smile, frozen in time,scattered across every surface of the house, sometimes makes it harder for us to smile. The kids whisper when they think I'm not listening, tiptoeing around her memory like it's something fragile they might break. But she was not fragile. Moving her photos isn't about forgetting—it's about letting her legacy be one of strength and resilience. Not perpetual mourning. It’s about giving us space to heal, to find joy without the weight of constant remembrance shadowing every laugh, every new memory.

And maybe, it’s also about making room for new memories, ones where she’s remembered with love and laughter, not just loss.

I add a few more photos to the box. A beach day. A hockey game. The last Christmas. Not gone, just... stored. Like memories should be. Safe but not suffocating.

Through the wall, I hear the kids plotting.

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