When Mia spoke up one evening, insisting her late mother had been visiting her at school, I brushed it off as a child’s way of coping with grief. But when she brought home chocolates I hadn’t packed, and her drawings of her mom became eerily accurate, I knew something was happening that I couldn’t explain.
It’s been two years since Elizabeth passed, and some days, I still half-expect to see her walk through the door. I guess that’s normal when you lose someone you love that much.
But I never expected what happened with Mia. I mean, how could I?
Elizabeth was everything to us — a loving wife and an incredible mother. She had this magical bond with Mia; they were inseparable, always giggling and playing together, like two halves of the same heart.
Every day without her has been a struggle, but even when the emptiness feels overwhelming, I’ve tried to stay strong for Mia.
My five-year-old daughter and I were slowly learning to live with grief until she announced one day with a confidence that took me completely off guard, “Mommy visits me at school.”
She looked up at me, her wide eyes full of certainty, clutching a drawing in her small hands.
“She gave me chocolate today.”
I felt my heart skip a beat. Elizabeth, my wife — Mia’s mother — had been gone for two years now. It was cancer, and it was fast.
Too fast. I thought Mia was too young to really understand. But now, hearing her say that, I didn’t know what to think.
“Sweetie, Mommy’s gone,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady.
“She can’t—”
“She can,” Mia cut me off, her little chin jutting out stubbornly. “She talks to me after recess. She watches me play, Daddy.”
At first, I thought it was just her way of coping, you know?
Filling in the gaps with her imagination. But then, the drawings started coming home. Picture after picture of Mia and her mom — holding hands, playing in the schoolyard, sitting on the swings.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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