Five minutes before I walked down the aisle, my five-year-old daughter slipped into the bridal room clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit. “Mommy, please look inside my Bunny,” she whispered. I reached inside, pulled out something small, and seconds later, ran from my own wedding holding her hand.
For five years, my daughter and I had our own little holiday every Saturday.
No calendars. No invitations. No expensive plans. Just pancakes.
Emma called them our “Mom + Me Days.”
Emma called them our “Mom + Me Days.”
She insisted pancakes tasted better if we cut them into funny shapes, so some Saturdays we ate stars, other Saturdays dinosaurs, and once we somehow ended up with something she proudly announced was a giraffe. It looked more like a potato wearing sunglasses.
“It has personality,” she’d insisted.
“It certainly does!” I whispered.
She giggled so hard she nearly fell off her chair.
Those mornings belonged only to us.
“It has personality.”
Phones stayed on silent.
Laundry waited.
The world could sort itself out for three hours while we sat barefoot in the kitchen making syrupy disasters together.
One rainy Saturday, when Emma was four, she came home from preschool carrying two plastic beaded bracelets she’d made herself.
One was tiny.
One was much too large.
One was tiny.
“I made matching ones!” She carefully slid the larger bracelet over my wrist. Then held out her own arm. “So everybody knows.”
“Knows what, baby?”
She smiled as though the answer was obvious.
“That we’re each other’s favorite.”
I laughed. “I think everyone already knows.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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