It had been seven years since I lost my mother. Seven years of birthdays without her voice, holidays without her laughter, and quiet nights where I still reached for the phone before remembering she was gone.
So when my cousin invited me to her wedding, I hesitated. Weddings had always been Mom’s favorite. She loved the rituals, the flowers, the way people dressed like hope. She would’ve been the first to RSVP, the last to leave the dance floor.
But this time, I’d be going without her. And I’d be bringing my daughter, Ava.
Ava was five—curious, sensitive, and full of questions. She never met my mother, but she knew her through stories. She’d seen photos, heard tales of her kindness, her stubbornness, her love for lemon cake and jazz music. Ava called her “Grandma Star,” because I once told her I believed Mom watched over us from the sky.
The wedding was beautiful. Soft lights, warm vows, and a garden that smelled like spring. Ava wore a pale blue dress and twirled like she was made of wind. I watched her and felt something shift—grief and joy, braided together.
During the reception, Ava tugged at my hand. “Mom,” she said, “do you think Grandma Star would’ve liked my dress?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “She would’ve loved it.”
Then she asked the question that broke me.
“Would she have danced with me?”
I couldn’t speak. I just knelt down and held her. Because yes—yes, my mother would’ve danced with her. She would’ve spun her around, laughed until her cheeks hurt, and whispered, “You’re magic.”
But she wasn’t there. And that absence was louder than the music.
Later that night, I sat alone under the fairy lights and let myself cry. Not just for my mother, but for all the moments Ava would never have with her. For the stories I’d have to keep telling. For the dance that never happened.
But in that ache, something else bloomed.
I realized that Ava’s question wasn’t just about loss—it was about connection. She wanted to know her grandmother. She wanted to feel her presence. And in asking, she reminded me that love doesn’t vanish. It echoes.
So I told Ava the story of how Mom danced with me at my own cousin’s wedding when I was her age. How she wore a green dress and sang off-key. How she made me feel like the center of the universe.
And Ava smiled. “Then maybe she danced with me in the stars.”
I nodded. “Maybe she did.”
That night, I learned that grief isn’t just sorrow—it’s memory, legacy, and love that refuses to fade. And sometimes, it takes a child’s question to remind you that the people we’ve lost still live in the spaces we create for them.
