The morning had been exhausting. My young girl was tired, grumpy, and struggling to stay together. I tried everything, including her favorite stuffed animal, juice, and snacks, but to no avail.
The waitress then approached.
She knelt next to us, extended her arms, and grinned broadly. “May I?” she whispered.
My kid didn’t hesitate, which surprised me. She embraced this stranger as if they had been friends for ages. In a matter of minutes, her small fingers were clutching the waitress’s uniform as she fell asleep across her chest.
I released a breath that I had been holding without realizing it. I said, “I’m not sure how to express my gratitude.”
The woman’s eyes were far away as she tenderly rocked my daughter. After a lengthy silence, she said something so subdued yet so passionate that my throat constricted.
“She makes me think of a person I lost.”
Her remarks were full with meaning and hovered in the air. I briefly believed that she may be referring about a niece or cousin—a youngster she had once looked after—but her expression was marked with something more profound. She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and gazed down at my sleeping daughter, her eyes softening. She whispered, “You’re lucky,” and then returned her to me.
I thought about that moment all day. The manner she spoke, the unadulterated vulnerability that lay beneath those few words, was just as important as what she said. Long after we left the diner, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
The normal turmoil of life reappeared later that week. I nearly forgot about the waitress because of job commitments, shopping runs, and nighttime rituals. Nearly. However, I would occasionally think about my kid again when she cuddled up to me or burst out laughing at one of my goofy jokes. I couldn’t get rid of the pain in her voice, as though she was carrying a burden too great for one person to handle.
I made the decision to visit the same diner where our paths had crossed one Saturday afternoon while running errands downtown. Perhaps I was curious, perhaps I felt bad for not asking more questions, or perhaps I wanted to somehow return her generosity. For whatever reason, I ended up parking outside and entering the quaint little café.
As before, the place had the smell of coffee and pancakes. It had a cozy feel to it because of the old posters and mismatched frames that covered the walls. I looked around the room, trying to find her. Rather, I observed a young man cleaning tables. He looked up and smiled courteously.
“Hello,” I answered, immediately uncomfortable. “Well, I’m searching for a waitress that works here. She has warm brown eyes, dark hair, and—
“Oh, Mia!” he broke off, nodding in agreement. She’s in the rear. Would you like me to get her?
“Yes, please,” I said, feeling a wave of relief.
She emerged a few moments later, using her apron to dry her hands. Her face flashed from recognition to surprise when she spotted me. With a little twist of her head, she remarked simply, “You came back.”
I anxiously gripped the strap of my purse and confessed, “I did.” “I wanted to properly thank you—and perhaps ask…” Uncertain of how to put it without coming across as intrusive, I hesitated. “What took place? You mentioned that day that she made you think of someone.
Mia’s face changed, becoming softer but still cautious. She indicated a vacant booth close to the window. “Let’s take a seat.”
Sunlight filtered through the glass as we sat in the booth, creating golden patterns on the table. Mia inhaled deeply and folded her hands neatly in front of her. She said, “Her name was Lily,” in a steady yet melancholy tone. “She was my daughter.”
My heart fell. This was unexpected. Not totally. I had somehow persuaded myself that she might be referring to a friend’s or sibling’s child rather than her own.
“When she died, she was five years old,” Mia added, gazing at the table as though recalling a past event. “Cancer.” It moved too quickly. She was playing dress-up and smiling one minute, and then the next… Her voice broke, and she took a moment to gather herself. “Even now, I miss her every day.”
My eyes pinched with tears, but I made myself remain in the moment. to hear. Knowing that no words could adequately express the depth of her suffering, I muttered, “I can’t imagine what that feels like.”
Mia smiled slightly, bittersweetly. It’s challenging. There are better days and bad days. However, even if it was only briefly, seeing your daughter last week was like getting a piece of Lily back. She resembles her a much.
Startled, I blinked. “Like her?”
Mia gave a nod. When she smiles, her dimple and curls remain the same. same obstinate nature. Her eyes glistened with tears, yet she laughed softly. It took me by surprise. I suppose I needed a reminder that we are never truly alone in love. even when individuals do.
Despite the seriousness of the subject, we laughed and shared anecdotes for almost an hour. By the conclusion, I felt as though I had developed a fresh understanding of my own world in addition to gaining insight into Mia’s. I gave her a firm hug before I left and said I would see her soon.
I mentally reenacted our chat as I drove home. I was astounded by Mia’s strength—not because she concealed her suffering, but rather because she publicly accepted it and allowed herself to gradually recover. She also brought to my attention a crucial point: nobody can guarantee tomorrow. Because it’s short, every embrace, every giggle, and every ordinary moment is valuable.
My daughter put her arms around my legs and greeted me with her typical excitement as soon as I went through the door. I knelt down and took her in my arms, keeping her close for a longer time than normal. I angrily muttered, “I love you,” into her ear. “So much, so much.”
She wriggled in my arms and giggled. “Mommy, you are also loved!”
I silently vowed then and there to treasure these times, no matter how crazy they may appear. Because those will be the memories I cherish the most in the future.
Like everything else, life goes on. I asked Mia to join us for supper one evening a few months later. It was uplifting and therapeutic to watch her engage with my kid; it was obvious that they had a unique bond. We grew close over time and helped one another through good times and bad.
Mia taught me a lesson that I carry with me every day: love and grief are eternal. Both are a part of who we are and serve as a reminder to cherish the people in our lives.
Tell someone you care about how much they mean to you today if this tale struck a chord with you. Remember that the greatest gifts in life are frequently found in the most mundane times. Share this message and promote compassion.
