Do you know what made me saddest about my mother being dead?
I remember when I first introduced my mom to my boyfriend’s daughter. She hurried to a back closet, found a cherished toy she’d kept tucked away, and gave it to the blond-headed [5]-year-old.
“I’ve been saving that for when I have grandchildren,” she added with a grin.
I watched the contented look on her face as she sat on the floor with the young girl who would become my stepdaughter two years after my mom passed from this earth. She had looked so happy as if a missing part of her had been found.
When I birthed my first daughter I was filled with joy, but skirting on the edges of my happiness was a melancholy sadness. It was the reminder of things I could not change, of things that I wished were different, but were not. I would look at my baby’s face and see my momma there. Then I would push that thought away.
