I still question why I find it bothersome on some days. I awaken, breathe, and go through ghostly-resonant rooms. But surviving? The night the police came to my door, that stopped.
I believed I had everything worked out before the accident. I had been married to Mark for eighteen years. He set off the fire alarm while attempting to make scrambled eggs in a disastrous cookery class when we were in college. On our first date, we joked about it, and for some reason, we kept laughing about it. Not until it was absolutely necessary.
We have two children. Emily was fourteen years old, full of glitz and attitude, and she was constantly engrossed in fantasy books. Josh, who was lanky and awkward at the age of sixteen, asked me to cook his favorite chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday despite his best efforts to appear calm.
Mark tried bad puns that made the kids groan, Josh banged on the bathroom door while Emily took forever getting dressed, and I yelled reminders about lunch boxes and schoolwork that no one ever remembered. Our mornings were beautiful chaos.
Back then, the house was noisy. Amazingly, unbelievably loud.
When Mark would approach her from behind and tousle her hair, I could still hear Emily laughing. When Josh’s father attempted to teach him how to replace a tire, I can still picture him laughing despite rolling his eyes.
I never bothered to restore the coffee rings and crayon scratches on our kitchen table since they belonged to us.
Then that October night with the rain arrived.
After saying, “I’ll pick up the pizza,” Mark reached for his keys. “You stay and finish your work.”
Emily jumped up and down from the sofa. “May I attend? Those garlic knots are what I want.”
Josh said, “Me too,” as he started to leave. “And I’m picking the music this time.”
“No way,” retorted Emily. “Your playlist is trash.”
“Guys, please refrain from fighting in the car,” I yelled while giggling. “And drive safe, babe.”
Mark gave me a forehead kiss. “Always do.”
He never spoke to me again after that.
About twenty minutes later, I could hear the sirens wailing in the distance through the rain. I seem to recall that someone was having a rough night. I recall returning to my laptop and sending another email, utterly oblivious to the fact that my entire life had just fallen apart three blocks away.
At 9:47 p.m., there was a knock. I looked at the clock when I opened the door, irritated by the interruption, and I will always remember the moment.
On my doorway, two policemen stood with raindrops trickling down their hats.
“Ma’am, are you Alison?”
“Yes?”
The elder removed his hat. Before his mouth could speak, his face told me everything.
“An accident has occurred. Your spouse and kids…”
His remaining remarks became inaudible. My knees buckled, I recall. One of them caught me, I recall. It sounded like it was coming from someone else’s throat, yet I do recall shouting.
“A driver who is intoxicated. The road is on the wrong side. No time to respond. The officer continued to speak those phrases as if they had meaning or could explain why I was still standing there while my family had left.”
Three days later was the funeral. I listened to people discussing Mark’s generosity and the children’s promising futures while sitting in the first row in black and gazing at three closed caskets. Their sounds sounded distant, as if I were submerged. My hand was held by someone. I can’t recall who it was.
That same dreary afternoon, I buried my spouse and both of my children. Additionally, something inside of me was buried.
The following months passed in silence.
I ceased taking phone calls. ceased to open cards of compassion. And quit acting as though I was fine when my neighbors inquired about my well-being while wearing that pathetic expression.
What should I have said? That I sat in Josh’s room most nights, clutching his basketball? That I felt my chest tighten as I passed Emily’s door?
The house didn’t feel right. Both too large and too silent.
As always, the early light streamed through the windows, but now it only emphasized the emptiness. Nobody got into a fight over the restroom. I prepared dinner, and nobody had any complaints. And there was nobody to prepare dinner for.
I performed the actions. I had no choice but to get out of bed. I should have taken a shower. My body begged that I eat. However, I wasn’t alive. I was merely existing in this terrible void between the past and the future.
I was waiting at the downtown bus stop one chilly day in late October. There was nowhere in particular I was going. Sometimes it was too much to me to sit at home, so I just rode busses. I noticed the flyer attached to the bulletin board at that point.
It featured children dressed for Halloween, with wide-eyed, gap-toothed smiles. “Halloween Costume Drive — Help Our Kids Celebrate!” was the headline.
In tiny print beneath it: “A lot of our kids have never worn costumes for Halloween. This year, give them an opportunity to feel unique.”
I spent a lot of time looking at that flyer. My chest changed in some way. merely a small break in the numbness I had encased myself in.
I did something I hadn’t done in months when I arrived home. I made my way to the attic.
The boxes, covered in dust and denial, were exactly where I had left them. I had been staying away from everything that made me think about my family, even this place. Now, however, I peeked inside the biggest box after opening it.
costumes for Halloween. dozens of them. I sewed Emily a bumblebee costume when she was five years old. Josh’s third-grade firefighter outfit, which included a plastic helmet. Emily wore a princess dress with misaligned sequins till it broke.
I took the bumblebee suit out and pressed it to my chest. The subtle smell of fabric softener was still there, along with another scent that was exclusively Emily’s. I delicately folded it with trembling hands.
“They should make other kids happy,” I said in a whisper to the vacant attic. “Not just sit here collecting dust.”
I packed a box of costumes in my trunk and headed to the children’s shelter the following morning. However, it didn’t feel sufficient when I came home. I reached out, which was something I hadn’t done in two years.
I asked friends and neighbors to donate costumes in a social media post. I explained the drive to people on my block as I went door to door. Josh used to love choosing out decorations, and Emily always liked the glittering accessories, so I even bought a few new costumes myself, crying as I walked through the store’s Halloween aisles.
My car was full by the weekend. Children who had never had a costume had a rainbow of options as they poured out of boxes and bags.
The staff was in disbelief when I brought everything to the shelter.
“This is incredible,” said Sarah, the coordinator, a sweet-faced woman. “You’ve made so many kids’ dreams come true.”
“It’s nothing,” I muttered, feeling instantly ashamed.
“It’s everything,” she kindly said. “This Saturday is our Halloween celebration. Do you want to attend? The children would be thrilled to meet you.”
I nearly declined. Since the accident, I had shunned parties, festivities, and anything that looked like happiness. However, I nodded for some reason.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “I’ll be there.”
I watched children play in the costumes I had gathered that Saturday while I stood in the shelter’s community room. It was painful to observe how pleased they were. I was sped passed by a young child wearing a superhero cape. with the corner, two females with witch hats laughed together. To anyone who would listen, a small pirate brandished a foam sword.
The children gave an off-key, flawless performance of songs about Halloween and fall. They were ecstatic and really proud. And I experienced something other than pain for the first time since that wet night. It was tiny, brittle, and hardly noticeable. However, it was genuine.
I heard a tiny voice behind me as I was making my way to the exit.
“Miss Alison?”
I froze when I turned around.
A young girl dressed as a bumblebee stood there. Emily’s costume of a bumblebee. As she moved, the antennae bobbled and the wings were slightly twisted. She was probably no older than five or six.
“Are you Miss Alison?” Her brown eyes gleamed in her tiny face as she repeated the question. “Miss Sarah said you brought us the costumes.”
I lowered myself to eye level. “Yes, dear. I was that person.”
So abruptly, she put her arms around my neck that I nearly toppled backward. Like she had been waiting her entire life to give someone a hug, her grip was intense and desperate.
“I’m grateful! Thank you very much. The words came out quickly.” I adore it! Being a bumblebee has always been my dream.
My throat constricted as I gave her a hug in return. “I’m so glad you like it, honey.”
She withdrew and gave me a look that was inappropriate for a five-year-old.
Silently, “My mom left me here,” she said. “A long time ago. However, you’re rather kind.”
My heart stopped beating.
“Maybe…” She twisted her hands in the yellow cloth of the outfit. “Maybe you’d want to be my mom?”
There was a lot of noise in the room, including kids shouting, music, and laughter. However, I was unable to hear any of it. Her question alone completely engulfed me.
“Would you like that?” I muttered. “You don’t mind? I’m not too old.”
She grinned as she took my hand in her little fingers. I had to fight back tears because the space between her front teeth made me think of Emily when she was that age.
Simply, “No,” she said. “You’re just right.”
Then her smile widened. “But you can consider it. That’s alright.”
She halted and turned around as she started to sprint for the candy table.
She exclaimed, “By the way, my name is Mia.” “In case you want to know!”
Then she was gone, running with her bumblebee wings bouncing.
For what seemed like hours, I stood there. I believed that everyone could hear my heart thumping so loudly.
I had trouble sleeping that night. I could see Mia’s face every time I closed my eyes. Those optimistic, bright eyes. That smile with the gaping teeth. She had given me a hug as if I were already hers.
I had lost two kids. I was afraid of letting my heart open once more. What would happen if she did? What if I wasn’t able to meet her needs? What if I was still too damaged to be a mother to anyone?
Then I imagined her asking me to be her mother while she was dressed as Emily. And I came to the realization that I was already damaged. Whether I could withstand further heartache was not the question. It was if I could live without trying.
I knew the answer by dawn.
Hands shaking, I drove back to the shelter. When Sarah saw me at the front desk, she appeared astonished.
I said, “I want to inquire about adoption,” before I became nervous. “The young girl dressed as a bumblebee. Mia.”
Sarah’s expression grew softer. “She hasn’t stopped talking about you since yesterday.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She took out a few documents. Two years ago, her mother gave up her rights. Mia is in need of a family.
“She’s been waiting for someone like you,” Sarah said kind of.
The procedure took a long time. Mountains of paperwork, interviews, background checks, and home visits were all part of the process. Child services came to my house and looked everywhere. I was questioned by social workers regarding my grief, stability, and capacity to care for a child who had already experienced abandonment.
“She needs consistency,” a social worker stated. “Can you provide that?”
“Yes,” I said without thinking. “I can.”
I received the call six weeks later. The adoption was accepted.
Mia was coloring at a little table in the corner when I entered the shelter for the last time. She was sketching what appeared to be very excited bees with a purple crayon.
She noticed me when she looked up. Her eyes widened.
She yelled, “You came back!” and threw herself across the room.
I grabbed her and clung to her. “Yes, I did. I returned.”
She slightly withdrew so she could see my face. “Will you be my mother? Really?”
With tears already running down my cheeks, I nodded. “If you’ll have me.”
“YES!” Her entire body tingled with happiness as she sprang up and down. “Yes, indeed! I’ll be excellent! I swear! I’ll eat my veggies, tidy my room, and…”
Through my tears, I chuckled. “You don’t need to be flawless, Mia. You simply must be yourself.”
In a whisper, she put her arms around my neck once again and said, “I already love you.”
“I already love you too,” I returned in a whisper.
Two years have passed since then.
Mia is now eight years old. She is intelligent, inquisitive, and incredibly compassionate. She frequently sketches bees on paper, in chalk on the pavement, and on the steamy bathroom mirror after taking a shower. She declared last week that she hopes to become a “bee doctor” when she grows up.
“Why a bee doctor?” I inquired.
She stated solemnly, “Because bees make honey, and honey makes people happy,” “And I want to make people happy.”
This little girl has somehow brought joy back into my life.
These days, our mornings are noisy. In the shower, she sings off-key. She and I have disagreements over what constitutes a vegetable. She strews art supplies across the kitchen table, forgets to replace the toothpaste cap, and generally causes turmoil in our house, albeit a different kind of disorder.
Mark, Josh, and Emily are still on my mind every single day. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, the grief comes back to me as if it were yesterday. However, Mia is now also there, telling me about her day at school, showing me her most recent bee doodle, or snuggling into my bed after a nightmare.
I never imagined becoming a mother again. I doubted my ability to endure it. However, sadness doesn’t genuinely request consent. Love doesn’t either.
One brave young girl dressed as a bumblebee and a flier at a bus stop were all it took to remind me of something I had forgotten: life doesn’t make up for what we’ve lost. It simply creates space for something fresh. And if we’re truly fortunate, love and kindness can occasionally remind us that there is still a reason why our hearts beat.
Just now, Mia called from the adjacent room. She wants to show me the information she learned about bees today at school. And since that’s what mothers do, I’m going to go listen. I get to do it once again.
My family might have been taken by that drunk motorist. He did not, however, take away my capacity for love. And I can live as long as I can love.
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