In a few weeks, my husband, daughter and I will move out of the yellow house across from the public library, a house that has been in his family for 75 years. Daisy, now 18, was 2 years old when she nestled into the same bedroom in which her grandmother spent her girlhood. We’ve loved living here, but adventure beckons. While I’m eager to turn the page to the next chapter of our story, I’m already nostalgic for the stories we’ve lived here.

Daisy was 2 years old when we moved in. I timed the move around naptime. I wanted furniture in place and her boxes unpacked by 1:30. Chaos would reign in most of the house, but in her realm, order would prevail. When regimented, toddlers are manageable.

I arrived just after the moving van and said, “The boxes marked D go in first. Up the stairs to the right.”

In seconds the movers returned to the curb. “Lady.” They called me lady like it was in a script somewhere. “That room is full already.”

I ran up and found a vanity with a triptych mirror, a diminutive bentwood rocker, and a wooden playpen filled with stuffed animals, some of which looked familiar from my mother-in-law’s décor and others, like the Bozo doll with a single big red shoe, were tattered and worn.

Bucky popped his head in. “My mother said she left some things for Daisy.”

“Take it to the cellar,” I said, “or Goodwill. Your choice.” We had been married long enough for him to sense now wasn’t a time for debate. He ducked his head and obeyed.

Still determined to settle her down by 1:30, I opened the closet to put her things away, and boxes tumbled down upon me. As the lid of a long shallow box fell off, its contents spilled onto the floor.

Ivory lace, a yellowed veil, a garter with a blue fabric flower. Silk stockings. Even the slip my daughter’s grandmother wore on her wedding day was in that box. The message could not have been clearer. Naps and schedules have their place, but the memories and history under the red roof would nourish my sweet baby girl’s soul.  At the vanity with the triptych mirror, her grandmother applied her makeup before high school dates. The Bozo doll slept with her dad every night for years. Her own life story is richer because she could live right up against their stories.

Talking about structure at a writers’ conference a few years ago, Lauren Groff, author of Arcadia, compared books to houses. Some have roomy basements, some have many windows, some have deep closets. The metaphor resonates with me.

We’ll have new stories in our next place, also yellow. A historic Greek Revival placed between a 17^th century cemetery and a white clapboard New England church, the house has had a rich life before we met. And yet, I’ll miss the treasures hidden in the closets of this house.

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Wendy Darwin Wakeman writes from Massachusetts, where she lives with her husband and daughter.