I always knew this moment would arrive. But knowing doesn’t ease the pain. Grief doesn’t care for advance warnings; I’ve discovered that truth time and again. A part of me was in denial, clinging to the belief that my children’s experiences would mirror my own forever. But they didn’t.
My father, who passed away over five years ago, was the Tooth Fairy in our family. It’s a sweet story, really. He received the title 11 years ago when my eldest, then a curious preschooler, asked about the jobs of our family members. While some roles were easily explained—like policeman or teacher—my father’s job as a dental technician required a bit more explanation. He crafted dentures for those who lost their teeth, and my son quickly concluded that meant Grandpa must be the Tooth Fairy. It made perfect sense to a 4-year-old.
That night, I called Dad to share his new title. He laughed heartily, embracing his role with joy. From then on, every time a tooth wiggled free or a dental visit loomed, the kids reached out to him. He comforted nervous little ones before procedures and explained the importance of flossing like a pro. He was their first call whenever a tooth was lost.
Then came cancer, and he was taken from us. Even in death, he kept his role alive. He took with him the last tooth he knew was lost, tucked safely in his shirt pocket. The kids figured he must have wings to accompany his fairy tutu, so it made sense to them. Instead of calling him, they began leaving notes under their pillows, hoping for a reply.
This summer, my middle child lost her final tooth, and my 8-year-old lost his third. My middle child shared a special bond with Grandpa; she was the cuddly one as a baby. His passing affected her deeply. She always believed he would be around for as long as she had baby teeth. After losing her last molar, she penned a final note to him.
I don’t think she fully understands the weight of it yet. In her rush to grow up, she may not realize the treasures she’s leaving behind. Maybe it’s better this way. I won’t point it out to her.
A few days later, her younger brother finally lost his third tooth. Unlike his siblings, he never knew Grandpa. He was just two years old when my father passed, so any memories he has are mere glimpses through photographs and stories shared by others. The Tooth Fairy is just that for him—an enchanting figure, not a beloved family member.
Facing this reality hit me hard. I always knew it would come, but I wasn’t truly prepared. The truth is that my younger children won’t remember my dad, and my youngest, born after his death, will only know him through tales.
For a fleeting moment, I considered keeping the Tooth Fairy alive with stories from my older kids, desperately wanting to maintain that connection to my father. But I realized that this desire stemmed from my own grief, and I can’t impose that on them. I must let him go once more, quietly.
This farewell is mine alone, and I need to respect that. Thank you, Dad, for all those years of flying around, leaving behind silver coins and letters that sparked excitement. You were the best Tooth Fairy in the universe, but even the greatest must eventually retire. Love you always.
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In summary, this poignant farewell captures the bittersweet transition of childhood as we navigate the loss of a cherished family member. While the magic of the Tooth Fairy may fade, the memories and love remain etched in our hearts.