Inside the largest box were the costumes I had sewn for Emily and Josh years ago: Emily’s bumblebee outfit, Josh’s firefighter costume, and the princess dress Emily had worn until the sequins fell off.
“They should make other kids happy,” I whispered through tears, and the next morning, I drove to the local children’s shelter with a box of costumes in my trunk, determined to give them a new life.
But that act was only the beginning. I posted on social media, went door-to-door, and purchased additional costumes so that the children at the shelter could each experience the magic of Halloween, no matter their circumstances.
By the weekend, my car overflowed with a rainbow of possibilities, and when I arrived at the shelter, the coordinator, Sarah, told me, “You’ve made so many kids’ dreams come true.”
I almost said it wasn’t enough, but she corrected me gently: “It’s everything.” Hesitant but encouraged, I attended the Halloween party, unsure if I could face so many children alone, yet determined to participate.
That Saturday, I watched as the children ran in the costumes I had collected, their laughter ringing out like music that both healed and ached in equal measure.
And then, I saw her: a little girl in Emily’s old bumblebee costume, her wings slightly bent, antennae bobbing as she approached.
“Miss Alison?” she asked, her voice soft but insistent. “Miss Sarah said you brought us the costumes.” I knelt, and she threw herself at me, hugging me fiercely.
“Thank you! Thank you so much! I love it! I always wanted to be a bumblebee!” she exclaimed, twisting the fabric in her hands. “Maybe… maybe you’d want to be my mom?”
That night, I lay awake, replaying her words over and over, feeling the warmth of hope and trust seep into the deepest corners of my heart.
Slowly, I realized that love could still exist, that I could still give and receive it. By sunrise, I had made my decision, and weeks later, after paperwork, inspections, and interviews, the process was complete.
I became Mia’s mother.
She was five when she came to me, and today, at eight, she is endlessly curious, intelligent, kind, and alive in ways that make my mornings noisy again, filled with laughter, small arguments over vegetables, and scattered art supplies.
I still think of Mark, Emily, and Josh every day, but I have learned that grief and love can coexist.
Life does not erase loss; it creates room for something new, fragile and beautiful. One flyer at a bus stop, one brave little girl in a bumblebee costume, and a willingness to open my heart again showed me that.Continue reading…
