My mom passed away just days before my son was born. The loss felt overwhelming—she had always been my anchor,

and I had pictured her guiding me through motherhood, just as she had guided me through life.

At the time, my daughter was only three years old, and I thought she was too young to truly understand what had happened.

Years later, when my daughter was twenty, I was talking with a friend about those difficult days.

I explained how hard it was that my mom had never been able to meet my son.

Saying the words out loud still carried a sting, even after all those years.

But then my daughter, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “That’s not true,” she said softly.

Confused, I asked what she meant. With calm certainty, she continued,

“Grandma did meet him. I remember her standing by his crib, smiling at him.

She looked at me and told me to help you take care of him.” I was stunned.

My daughter had been only three when my mom passed, yet she described things I had never shared with her—details about my mom’s favorite perfume,

the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, even the exact clothes she loved to wear.

In that moment, I felt an unexpected peace.

My daughter’s memory reminded me of something powerful: love does not simply fade.

It stays with us, woven into our lives in ways we might not always see.

Maybe my mom never got to hold my son in the way I dreamed she would,

but through that memory, I knew she had still been present in her own way—offering comfort

, leaving her mark, and reminding us that her love would always remain.