It has been three days since we lost Millie, and already the house feels like a different place. Grief does that—it doesn’t just take away the one you love, it reshapes the air, the silence, the spaces you thought were ordinary. Everywhere I look, Millie’s presence still lingers.

The kitchen door feels the heaviest. For so long, that was her spot—her little watchtower. She would sit there patiently, waiting as I washed the dishes, her eyes fixed on me with a quiet focus only she had. When I finished, she would collect her treats as if this was the final step of our daily ritual. I catch myself staring at that same door now, waiting for her to appear, but only emptiness greets me.

Her pawprints remain invisible but permanent—on the sofa she claimed as hers, on the sunny patches of the floor where she melted into the warmth, on the windowsill where she watched the world go by. Even in silence, I hear her bell, a phantom sound that plays tricks on me—was that really nothing, or did Millie just pass by one more time?

Me and Jan are coping badly. Grief has a way of sneaking up on us when we least expect it. Sometimes I hear him sob quietly in the shower, as if letting the water carry his tears away. Other times, it happens suddenly—while he is sitting still, while nothing at all is happening—because grief does not wait for permission. And when I see his pain, my heart breaks twice: once for the loss of Millie, and again for the man I love, who is grieving just as deeply as I am.

There is no easy way through this. We try to talk about her, and sometimes we can. Other times the words catch in our throats, replaced only by silence or tears. But even in that silence, we know we are not alone. We are carrying this loss together.

And maybe that is the lesson Millie leaves us with: that love does not disappear when life does. The depth of our pain is proof of the depth of our love. Grief, as cruel as it is, is also a mirror—it reflects back all the ways she mattered, all the ways she saved us, all the ways she made our ordinary days extraordinary.

Day 3 without Millie. The house is emptier, but our hearts remain full—aching, yes, but still filled with every moment she gave us. The pain is unbearable, yet it is also a reminder: we were blessed to be chosen by her. We were blessed to be her family.

If love could have saved her, she would have lived forever. And in some way, through every Milliememory, she still does.