---

Introducing: The House of AnnaBelle
Where legacy, memory, and honour live on

On Christmas Eve, I received the message in the morning that my mother was in the ICU at the Montreal General Hospital. I flew out immediately and arrived just in time to be with her as she took her final breath. My cousin Vickie was there with me, comforting me through those final moments. My mother’s breathing was declining rapidly, and I knew in my heart that the machines were keeping her lungs going. It was only her body that remained, as I felt her soul had already left before I arrived. On Christmas Day 2024, just after midnight, my mother was officially declared deceased.

I left the hospital with my cousin, carrying my luggage and a bag of my mother’s clothing from when she arrived at the hospital. As we walked out to the Uber, it was a silent Christmas night where everything was still. The chill was in the air, and it was cold as hell. My world had fallen apart in less than 24 hours.

My cousin and I parted ways, but beforehand she invited me to stay at my Aunt’s and Uncle’s to comfort me through the night. I said no because I knew I just wanted to release the heartache and pain that had been pulsating through me since that morning. I was ready to rage at God on Jesus’ birthday, and yeah, maybe it was just that.

I arrived at my mother’s house on Christmas, alone, and just wailed as the tears flowed without ceasing. I was broken, having never experienced a loss so deep. The pain wasn’t something I could prepare for because it wasn’t just grief – it was disorientation. A tidal wave of memory, regret, disbelief, and raw emotion washed over me. I found myself moving through time in fragments, drifting between the past and present as everything I thought I understood about myself and my story cracked wide open.

I revisited my childhood in flashes through a scent or a song. I questioned things I had long buried and felt guilt. I blamed myself in quiet, unspoken ways, even though I knew it wasn’t mine to carry. I kept wishing she hadn’t gone the way she did, so suddenly and without warning. I longed for more time, for one more conversation, for her laugh, her scent, her hands, and for a different ending.

But in the middle of all that darkness, something unexpected happened as her light remained.

In late March I returned to Montreal to care for her home and her things. I thought it would be a process of wrapping things up and finding closure, but it was anything but that. As I moved through her space, her garden, her kitchen, and the rooms she once filled with love and energy, I didn’t feel closure. I felt a new kind of presence that carried a quiet ache, yes, but also something more—something that kept whispering to keep going.

The house was full of so many things including furniture, clothes, papers, photos, half-used candles, unopened mail, old linens, new things, broken things, and beautiful things. It was overwhelming and too much for an only-child with a grieving heart.

Luckily Zac, my husband, was with me for the first bit, and we began sorting through the layers. We let go of what we could and made space as Zac helped me post most of it in the free section of Facebook Marketplace. Watching strangers walk away with pieces of her life felt surreal, but it also created room emotionally and physically for something new to emerge.

When Zac left, I stayed behind alone in this house of things. I walked from room to room in silence, and some days I didn’t speak at all. I felt like I was underwater as the pain came in waves like lightning bolts, sharp, sudden, and unstoppable. It landed in my chest and sat heavy while I cried in places I didn’t expect to cry: the bathroom, the basement, in her dresses, and over a coffee mug with her name painted on it.

I missed her viscerally and longed for her laughter, her touch, and her presence. I wanted her to comfort me through the very grief of losing her, and yet within that longing, inspiration began to rise.

It came gently through the morning light shimmering on the dew-covered blades of grass, through the soil she once tended, and through her energy still echoing through the space. Her strength was everywhere, along with her spirit and her beauty.

People walked by the house as I was clearing the yard and asked about the lady who tended the garden, wondering where she was. They told me stories of how her garden made them feel all those years, and she left a fond memory for everyone in her community.

It was then that I began to listen as I could feel her urging me to take all this heartbreak and make something beautiful with it.

That something became The House of AnnaBelle, which is a space to honour her story, her energy, and her essence. It’s a way to keep her spirit alive in a form that speaks to who she was and who I am becoming through this loss.

The name AnnaBelle came from Zac as his playful and sweet nickname for my mother. It was a softened, more graceful version of Annie that suited her because it was elegant, feminine, and timeless. But she was so much more than elegant because my mother was fire, force, and wildly alive.

She came to Montreal at twenty years of age as a liberated fun-seeker during the bright days of Expo ’67. She arrived on her own and within years brought over her parents and sisters, becoming the bridge, the brave one, and the trailblazer. From her boldness, our family grew as her sisters have families of their own now, and their children have children. Because she took the first step, the lineage carries on.

She was magnetic, and people noticed her as strangers smiled at her on the street, neighbours adored her, and friends felt at home with her. She had this quiet power that made people feel seen, appreciated, and loved. She lived from her heart and trusted her intuition while knowing who she was and never compromising that for anyone. That’s how she found the love of her life, Alfredo, my beloved stepfather, whose bond with her was steady, kind, and true. Watching them together shaped how I understand love.

And then there was her garden.

My mother’s garden was an extension of her spirit, overflowing with life, colour, scent, and care. It was full and generous with vegetables, wildflowers, roses, bees, and butterflies. Gardening was her way of grounding herself when the world felt uncertain. She found comfort in the earth, and in return, the earth bloomed for her.

Roses are the motif used in the branding of The House of AnnaBelle because they were her favourite. But they’re also a symbol of her as they are resilient, lush, radiant, and strong and soft at the same time.

So no, this isn’t just a random website.

It’s a living altar, a space born of grief, love, memory, and magic. Every object collected holds something deeper than its aesthetic because it carries presence, story, and soul. Each piece is chosen with intention, in her honour and in honour of the idea that beauty can be healing when it’s made with heart.

The House of AnnaBelle is how I stay close to her and honour both what I lost and what I continue to find in that loss. Grief remains with me as part of my growth into womanhood at 47. I’ve always been ‘mommy’s little girl,’ but now it’s just me. Through this space, I transform sorrow into something sacred, carrying the essential elements of who she was through each day.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for witnessing, and for walking with me through this new chapter.

With love,
Shay