It was a rough day. Unpacking has been harder than I thought. Every time I open a box, I’m met with more memories like sharp knives that stab my already wounded heart. Today I shed tears over an outfit I wore when I went to my husband’s mission homecoming, donated lingerie from my wedding night, bagged baby clothes that I no longer need to keep for hand-me-downs, pitched shoes I’ve climbed mountains with my boys in, and neatly folded some fleece pants that I snuggled in with my little family on Christmas morning. My little family. My little now-broken family.
And every time I walk into the garage and stare at the stack of boxes that still need to come into the house, one by one … I cringe at the thought of what might be inside them. How many more knives can there be? How many more stabs can my heart take?