My MIL always kept her room locked. At night, I’d sometimes hear what sounded like a baby crying, but she’d brush it off as “just the TV.” One day she forgot to lock it, and I found a fully decorated nursery—crib, toys, diapers—everything spotless, but no baby.
She confessed that years ago, she’d had a daughter, Mila, who died at eight months from health complications. She never told my husband, Luca, who was too young to remember. That room was her way of keeping Mila close.
When she broke her hip, we moved in to care for her. But she grew obsessed with the nursery, accusing nurses of stealing from it. A doctor suggested early dementia. One day, I caught her rocking a bundle of blankets, singing lullabies to “Mila.” Luca and I sought a family therapist, who helped her start letting go.
We created a memory box for Mila and transformed the nursery into a quiet reading nook. Then a neighbor asked if we could watch her baby, Sophie. My MIL held her without breaking down, smiling as she played and cared for her. It became a weekly thing—giving her a new sense of purpose.
One sunny afternoon, she told us, “Losing a child doesn’t mean you stop being a mother. You just love in different ways after.” The locked room was never just about grief—it was about unspoken pain and finding healing when you’re finally ready.
Now, that room is peaceful. A reminder. And proof that love, when it heals, can grow again.
