Weeks after the fire, we were staying at a friend's cottage. One night I snuggled in bed between my girls, tucking them in, and it hit me: Not only did I lose everything my kids ever made me, but none of it could be replaced. My children are growing up. Christopher and Lydia don't draw me pictures anymore and rarely write cards, and Eden isn't as prolific as she was. I lay in that big bed with both the girls and sobbed until my head ached. I couldn't stop, and we all wept together. I was still happy to be alive. I still knew that the pictures were part of the stuff that didn't matter as much as the people they represented. I was still unutterably grateful that our family was spared, but I was sad to lose those precious cards and drawings, still. One didn't negate the other.After a bit Lydia, who was 12 at the time, almost 13, said, "But Mom, those cards and pictures and letters weren't us. It's like they were a shadow of us, like an imprint we left behind, but they weren't us. We're still here, and we're going to be telling you we love you for the rest of our lives."Previous: Pain-Free Ways to Declutter Your LibraryNext: How to Get Decluttering Help