This is a glimpse into a night in the life of bereaved parents. It’s not glamorous, it’s not polished—it’s messy, raw, and honest. From the outside, some might think it’s silly, but grief doesn’t follow logic. Triggers—small, unexpected, ordinary things—can hit you like a tidal wave, and that reaction is real, valid, and deeply human.
My husband Tommy and I had just returned home from visiting my parents. I rushed inside as soon as we got home to use the restroom. TMI? Maybe. But the details matter here. The day before, we had run out of toilet paper, and Tommy was supposed to go to the store while I was at work. Of course, it didn’t happen. To make matters worse, he had used the last bit we had left. Frustrated, I asked him to find something for me to use—maybe we had extra rolls stashed in the spare room, or even a paper towel. Anything. After a few minutes, he came back holding a pack of wipes—Huggies, all-natural, a very specific kind. And that was it. That was the moment everything fell apart, emotionally.
The memories hit me instantly, and I felt the tears welling up before I could stop them. I was transported back to a time when our biggest worry was which wipes to use on our baby’s bum, a worry so simple, so innocent, and yet now, in a single blink, replaced with unimaginable grief. I asked Tommy where he had gotten them from, though deep down I already knew. “Ren’s room, in the drawer,” he said. He had pulled them from the changing table drawer I had carefully organized in anticipation of our baby’s arrival. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, “Put them back, please.” He laughed at first, thinking I was joking, and insisted I use them. But when the sobs overtook me, he realized the depth of my pain.
What struck me more than the memories, though, was the disruption of Ren’s room—his little sanctuary. It was immaculate, exactly as it had been the day we brought him home from the hospital, and I wanted it to stay that way forever. I felt like he was slipping further away, and even though I know he will never come home, I cling to that room as if preserving it could somehow hold him here. His room has a unique scent—clean laundry, soft blankets—a reminder of him that hasn’t changed since he’s been gone. It’s the one place where it can still feel like a dream, like we are still preparing to bring him home.
Everything in his room speaks of him: shelves stacked with thoughtful quilts, blankets, and carefully chosen books; his diaper bag perfectly packed, aside from the outfit he was buried in; his toy box overflowing with meaningful toys; binkies still in their packaging; clothes hanging with tags; drawers stocked with diapers, wipes, ointments, and tiny socks; and his crib, complete with a brand-new sheet set and a mobile my aunt made with love, still hanging above it. Every detail is a piece of him frozen in time.
Living with grief is hard. Life is hard. And triggers—they can come from the most ordinary things, like a pack of baby wipes—and knock you to your knees. I dread the holidays without Ren. His Christmas outfit still hangs in the closet with tags on it. Do I take it back? Give it away? Keep it? That is the thought process running through my mind as I walk through his nursery every day.
Some triggers hit harder than others. Some moments, you expect to be painful, and yet they don’t faze you at all. People assume that because we laugh, joke, and carry on, we are “over it.” And they also assume that on a hard day, we’ve regressed. Grief doesn’t work that way. Our days may get lighter, but the ache for Ren is constant. We will always miss him, on both good and bad days. That ache never fully disappears, and that’s okay. It’s our new normal, learning to navigate life with a love that grief cannot erase.
