04/13/2026
Progress
I just shared this on my personal page and I thought it might help some of the newly grieving out there. My daughter is gone 18 months now and it was nice to see that the edges have (in this area anyway) softened a bit. The despair is still there but something softer is also growing.
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*UPDATE* Last year I shared:
"In time, the dishwasher will stop making me sad. I’m not there yet, but I’m closer than yesterday."
A year later, it’s different.
Not easier exactly, but different.
I don’t cry every time I put a dish away now. That sharp edge has softened, the one that used to catch me somewhere between the bowls and the glasses.
But I still hate the job.
Especially the silverware.
Some things, it turns out, really were inherited.
These days, the dishwasher feels less like a place where something is missing and more like a place where something lingers.
Her favorite dishes still stand out. The cup she always reached for. The plate that somehow feels more like hers than ours.
Rob and I notice them too.
We’ve turned it into a quiet, playful thing between us. If he cooks, he’ll slide one of her favorites my way. If I’m serving, I’ll do the same for him.
They’re still special.
Not set aside, not saved for someday. Just part of our days.
The dishwasher still fills. It still needs emptying.
But now, sometimes, there’s a moment in it.
A cup in my hand. A memory that doesn’t break me open, it just stays for a second.
Jess had a way of doing that.
Making small things matter.
And now…
sometimes I leave it for later on purpose.
Feels like we’re still in this one together.
*****
The original post from a year ago:
It started as a delight.
When Jess was 4, she loved helping with the dishwasher. “I feel like a grown-up! I’m doing grown-up work!” she’d say, beaming as she carefully loaded silverware.
Of course, as she grew, that early enchantment faded. When it officially became her job to empty the dishwasher, it quickly became a daily tug-of-war.
She hated being reminded, but she also hated NOT being reminded. She tried schedules, spontaneity, bargaining, avoiding, and theatrics. For all her brilliance, straight A’s, insight, and kindness, this one task baffled her. It was too small to matter and yet, somehow, too big to do.
The annoyance of our ongoing struggle over something this inconsequential stole more joy than it should have. Looking back, I wish I’d let more of it go.
And then, on what would turn out to be her last morning, there were no reminders, no resistance, and the dishwasher was empty.
We had a fun, light-hearted morning together. I joked that it was SO AMAZING that I could put the dishes she was making directly into the dishwasher, and she warned that it might be better if I waited until she was finished.
I teased that she hadn’t even made a mess. Also unusual!
She locked eyes with me and, with a quiet smirk, tipped a bit of matcha onto the counter.
A mess I would have.
We laughed.
Now it’s my turn. The dishwasher fills and still needs emptying. I dread it. Not because it’s hard but because it’s hers. Because every clink of a clean plate reminds me she’s not here to do it, begrudgingly or not.
I’ve caught myself crying while unloading bowls. I’ve resented the machine, the cycle, the routine. I’ve wished I hadn’t made such a big deal out of it. I’ve wished it was STILL a big deal because it would mean she was here, rolling her eyes again.
Just yesterday, I asked myself: Can I transform this?
Can I stop dreading this one small task that now feels so loaded?
The answer might lie in remembering that once, the dishwasher was a joy to her. At four, it made her feel grown-up and important. And on that final morning, it gave us a connection.
Eventually, each mug I put away might become a moment to say, “Thank you, Jess. I remember.” And each spoon I return to its place, a simple way to honor my girl who made messes and jokes.
In time, the dishwasher will stop making me sad.
I’m not there yet, but I’m closer than yesterday.
