It’s still odd that I live in my mother’s house, a dusty old relic on one of the best streets in Elmhurst, Illinois. Its drab interior, leaky windows, and outdated roof made me think about selling, but I was too tired to pack, sort, and figure out where to move again after her funeral. Plus, it had once been my home too. I was ready to make it that way again.

Now, I carefully navigate down the stairs, my fingers cruising over the worn banister. At the bottom, I pass the sitting room I never actually sit in—badly in need of paint and fresh curtains—the monstrous dining room, the open foyer, and the cozy living room with the sailboat wallpaper. I used to stare at that wallpaper for hours as a child, until my eyes grew blurry and the boats blended together into a deep ocean blue.

Later, as an adult, when I found out I was going to lose my vision, I’d walk to Lake Michigan, sit on the beach, and stare at the water. I’d let the calm wash over me and commit the exact hue to memory—the same blue as my childhood wallpaper—and focus on how the water glittered and churned. I’d close my eyes and get used to hearing, not seeing. When my vision worsened, Chris continued to bring me to the water every Sunday. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask questions. He just let me be.

Since his death, I haven’t been back even once.

I turn the corner into the kitchen, fill the kettle, and flick on the burner. Updating my childhood home will be the very first renovation project I tackle with Crystal, an interior designer I met at a grief group. Six months after Chris died, I’d waddled into the group with my pregnant belly, instantly wanting to leave, and that was when Crystal helped me find a seat. She didn’t ask about my vision or why I was there, and I didn’t ask her either.

We talked about other things: our careers and living in Elmhurst, though we had both lost our husbands. It was over a month before I even knew she had a daughter. I quickly learned she didn’t like talking about her life—as if the mere mention of the people who composed it would somehow alert the universe to take them all away too. Not many people understood that, but I did. There, in that room full of Kleenex and anguish, was the most connected I’d felt to anyone in a really long time. We’d been on a steady incline to genuine friendship ever since.

Upstairs, the baby cries. My body tingles as he calls. I shake the electricity from my limbs and wait to see if he will settle back to sleep, but he continues to cry.