Aside from the prospect of having her own bathroom, complete with a bathtub shelf that would allow her to read books while she soaked, Grace was not too keen on the idea of moving. Even though we were only moving a block away–to a house with more space–she didn’t see any reason why we had to move at all. And while her brothers were quick to claim their own bedrooms in the new house—thrilled at the idea of no longer having to share—she seemingly could have cared less where she ended up. Even so, she did spend much of the summer in her new room, some days playing dolls with friends, other days experimenting with makeup.

Foreshadowing her adult career as a designer, she had an uncanny ability at that age to create just about anything from simple scraps of paper, scotch tape, scissors, and a stapler. I noticed she was becoming more interested in clothes, and she seemed to enjoy the times when we were home alone and could have mother/daughter “spa parties”—lighting candles and incense, soaking our feet, and trying new hairstyles. In addition to all these subtle signs, her expanding vocabulary, the result of an insatiable reading habit, belied her nine years, causing her to sound older than she was. In short, I was certain I was witnessing a significant transition in my daughter’s life.

Which is what makes what happened next so humbling.

One day in late summer, I came across her magic—the self-named satin remnant of her old baby blanket that she still slept with every night. I made a split-second decision, based on my recent observations, that losing her magic would help nudge her a little more into the world she had been flirting with from a distance. She just needed a little help. And I knew exactly what to do. So I hid it away. As I expected, she did look for it at bedtime for a couple of nights after it disappeared, but she eventually seemed to forget about it. She didn’t mention it again, and every night, she would happily read herself to sleep.

After school started in the fall and our family life returned to its more predictable yet hectic routine, we experienced the death of a family friend. Laura was the mother of a classmate who had been battling cancer the whole time we had known her, maybe 3 or 4 years. On the day she died, before I learned the news, I came home to find a handmade paper basket on the kitchen table, filled with handmade paper gifts, one for each member of Laura’s family. There was a picture frame, a mini-journal, a trading card wrapped in homemade gift paper, and a handmade stress pillow. On the card was a message in Grace’s handwriting that told me all I needed to know: I feel awful.
Several days later, after attending the memorial service and reaching out, as a family, to the widower and his four children, I went to Grace’s room to kiss her goodnight and found her laying in bed with tears welling up in her eyes.

Life’s just too short, Mom.

We cuddled and chatted for a few minutes. I did my best to reassure her that, although it was natural to be afraid of death, she was still young and had her whole life ahead of her. It didn’t occur to me until later that because her friend had lost his mom, maybe she was more worried about losing me than of her own death. Nevertheless, I wanted to believe that I had said the right things and that she would now be able to fall asleep. But it was obvious something else was still bothering her.

AND I haven’t been able to find my magic. I bet I’ve looked for it a hundred times. Every night I pull back all my covers and look throughout my whole bed. I just can’t imagine where it is! I’m afraid it’s lost for good!

Gulp. In that heartbreaking moment, it became clear to me that, despite the makeup, the hairdos, and the vocabulary, she clearly was not quite ready to move on. And I had to admit to myself–and to her–that I was wrong. I brought the tattered magic to her. The trembling sobs that burst from her when she saw it assured me that was the right thing to do. And I hugged my little girl tightly as I told her “I’m sorry.”