Celia had the largest room in the house. Right across from ours in case she needed us. Pink and purple flowers made from a collection of our handprints decorated the front of her door. I reached out and touched the wood. She was crying that day. Tired from sitting through another round of chemo. Her last one. There had been no improvements, no signs of remission, nothing. Just more chemo. And less hope.

I lean my forehead against the door and close my eyes. Celia would’ve been eleven. We hadn’t touched her room since she left us, her door remaining closed for the past five years. Tracing her handprints had become a part of my routine. And sometimes if I shut my eyes hard enough, I could imagine her petite hand wrapped around mine. Clammy and soft. I’ve tried to force myself to open her door, to step one foot onto her beige carpet, but I never can.

Am I bad mother? To admit that her memory has faded. I can barely remember how she smells. Or the sound of her laughs. The only things I can remember are the bad days. The day we found out about her tumor. Watching her waste away. Sitting helplessly while we watched the cancer take her. I remember all of it. And I’m tired. I want the good days back. I push open the door and step into her room. Celia’s unmade bed sits in the corner, her collection of Beanie Babies still occupying most of the surface. A small table sits in the center of the room, turned over teacups and various plastic fruits still wait for her return. Andre the Octopus, a present we got her from a trip to the aquarium, drapes over a chair with a t-shirt haphazardly flung on top of his head. I walk over and grab the shirt— a white My little Pony with a yellow stain across the stomach. Lifting the material up, I press it against my nose and inhale. Baby lotion and popcorn. She smelled like baby lotion and popcorn.

I let the tears flow freely.