4,383 Days

There was only one rule: don't open the door.

I trusted him with everything to keep us safe, and he always held up his end of the bargain. Our children are my everything, and even though they've never felt the sunshine on their faces, we can all feel okay knowing that Daddy has our backs.

The world ended 12 years ago, and he's protected me from the terror ever since. I'm not even curious about what's on the other side of that door anymore, and he spares my feelings by not talking about it.

Sure, I miss my family, and the life I had outside of these four walls, but my art supplies keep me busy and connected with the me I used to know.

I paint flowers and wild horses galloping through the fields. I paint memories from my childhood home: the swingset, my border collie, my parents, and my sister. I miss them so much, but I carry them with me every day and remember their faces through the pigment I placed strategically to keep them alive forever.

A part of me always wonders if they made it out. When I lost them at that carnival, there was no way I would have known it would be the last I ever saw of them. It gets harder to think about around this time of year. Birthdays without them are hollow, but the least I can do is raise my children with the same amount of love they raised me.

Here's to 22 years and 4,383 days since the end of the world.