🌈 A Little Color on Our Road: Remembering Suzanne in the Everyday Moments

For my family there is some days, it’s the little things that stop me in my tracks. Including a rainbow-colored house not far from where we live. You can’t really miss it. It’s bright, full of life, and honestly—it just feels happy when you see it sitting there. Every time I pass it, I think of my daughter Suzanne.

Suzanne loved color in a way that was bold and unapologetic. She didn’t believe in “neutral.” If she had her way, everything would have been bright and alive. She once talked about painting her room in different colors on every wall—orange, Cookie Monster blue, key lime green, neon pink. And she said it with a smile like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to her, it was.

I feel bad because Suzzane never got her room painted those colors even though we planned on it because she was called home and life changed too quickly, and those plans stayed only in conversation and imagination. But I carry those little pieces of her with me in unexpected ways.

That’s what this rainbow house does. It reminds me of her spirit. Not in a sad way—but in a way that feels like she still shows up in the world through color and memory and the little things that make you pause for a second and make me smile.

Charlie saw it too, and we talked about stopping to take a photo. Just a simple moment. Nothing big. Just life as it is right now—busy, loud, moving, and still making space for memories in between everything else. Because this is what Suzzie would have wanted us to do.

The owners kindly allow people to take photos on weekends since they live there during the week, and I really respect that balance of sharing something joyful while also protecting their private life. I think that’s something we can all understand—needing both connection and quiet. Life is like that too.

We show up. We work. We raise kids. We try to keep everything going. And in the middle of it, we find small moments that remind us of the people we love and the memories we carry forward. For me, this was one of those moments. A house full of color. A memory of a daughter who saw the world in bright shades. And a reminder that love doesn’t disappear—it just shows up differently over time.

Thank you,

Glenda, Charlie and David Cates