This past weekend, while my partner and son enjoyed a ski trip, my 8-year-old daughter Lily and I opted for a quieter day at home. Lily is still in her eight-week recovery phase following a mononucleosis diagnosis. Though she appears well, fatigue still catches up with her easily. On Saturday morning, we ventured to a local park where I jogged while she rode her bike along the familiar path beside me. Typically, we complete two laps, with her often racing ahead, then looping back to wait for me. However, after just one loop around the reservoir, she hesitated and, with a bit of anxiety, asked if we could take a break. She was breathing heavily, her legs complaining from exertion. I wrapped my arms around her and agreed it was time to head home. As I packed her bike into the car, I chastised myself for even suggesting the outing; perhaps it was unwise to trigger memories of her lingering illness.
Upon returning home, we cozied up in my bed to finish reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Each time we conclude a book in the series, we celebrate by watching the corresponding movie. As I read the final chapters, I could see the excitement in Lily’s eyes, her curiosity bubbling over with questions that demonstrated her engagement with the story. The room was dimly lit by lamps on our bedside, a gentle fan circulating the air around us. This is how I cherish spending an afternoon—wrapped up in a book’s world with Lily, who shares my love for such serene moments.
After the conclusion of the book, I rummaged through the closet to retrieve the movie, neatly tucked between my sweaters. The moment I produced it, Lily’s face brightened. “Can I watch that now, Mommy?” she asked, quickly correcting herself with a sheepish, “I mean, may I?” It seems I’ve had to correct that one a few too many times.
“Of course, sweetie.” I set the DVD to play on an old laptop, and she settled back against the pillows, her fatigue evident in her drooping eyelids and the relaxed slope of her shoulders. I recalled those early days post-diagnosis when she would fall asleep at every opportunity, reminiscent of a little baby.
After the movie wrapped up, we decided to treat ourselves to dinner at one of our favorite spots, a cozy restaurant just a couple of blocks away. Lily held her American Girl doll, dressed in her finest, with one hand while instinctively slipping the other into mine. I tried to push aside thoughts about how fleeting these moments are—when she still wants to hold my hand, when a simple dinner out feels like an extravagant adventure for just the two of us.
We found a booth in the warm, wood-paneled restaurant and ordered our favorites: kids’ nachos to start, a glass of sauvignon blanc for me, and ginger ale for Lily, along with pasta and marinara sauce on the side, and a Cobb salad. Lately, she’d taken to ordering for herself, confidently looking the server in the eye and saying, “Please, may I have.” Watching her do this fills me with pride. When our drinks arrived, she leaned forward, sipping her sparkling ginger ale while her eyes flitted around the room, taking in the sights and sounds, checking on her doll. I observed her, enchanted by her curiosity. Our gazes met, and she smiled before returning to her exploration of the space around us.
Lily embodies my past, with her chocolate brown eyes holding my memories from those early, challenging months of motherhood, while she also represents my future, propelling me forward as she grows much too quickly. Being with her often feels like tumbling through time, lost in a hall of mirrors reflecting both of our lives—highlighting our similarities and differences. This intricate connection deepens my bond with her but also amplifies my fears about raising her well.
“Mommy?” Lily interrupted my thoughts, asking a detailed question about Voldemort. I shook my head slightly to refocus and provided the best answer I could muster. Our nachos arrived, and Lily’s giggle erupted as she lifted one and the whole plate followed. When our main courses came, she raised her glass of ginger ale, smiling brightly as she reached to clink it against my wine glass. “Cheers!” she exclaimed. “It’s so much fun to have dinner just the two of us, Mum.” I fought back tears as I touched my glass to hers, smiling in response. Yes, I longed to say, it truly is. But the fear of tears spilling forth held me back; I knew that would alarm her. A single, powerful thought echoed in my mind: We won’t be back here again.
After dinner, we strolled home, hand in hand.
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