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We Won’t Return Here Again
My partner and our son enjoyed a weekend of skiing, while my 8-year-old daughter, Lily, and I stayed behind. Lily is still on a break from sports after being diagnosed with mononucleosis. Though she seems okay, she tires easily. On Saturday morning, we headed to Fresh Pond, where I jogged and she rode her bike alongside me. Normally, we make two laps, with her racing ahead and then looping back to wait for me. This time, after just one lap, she asked nervously if we could stop. She was panting and said her legs felt tired. I hugged her and agreed it was time to head home. As I loaded her bike into the car, I questioned whether it was a good idea to push her at all, concerned I might be reminding her of her illness.
Once we got home, we snuggled into my bed to finish reading “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” We celebrate completing each book by watching its movie. Lily sat beside me with her eyes shining, fully engaged, occasionally interrupting with questions that showed she was invested in the story. The room was dimly lit by glass lamps, and a fan softly whirred, creating a cozy atmosphere. I cherish these afternoons spent reading with Lily, and I’m grateful that she enjoys them as much as I do.
After finishing the book, I went to the closet and pulled out the movie, tucked between some sweaters. Lily’s face lit up. “Can I watch that now, Mummy?” She quickly corrected herself, “Oh, I mean, may I?” I’ve clearly pointed that out too many times!
“Of course, sweetie.” I set the DVD into an old laptop, and she settled back against the pillows, her fatigue evident in her relaxed posture and droopy eyes. I recalled the days following her mono diagnosis, when she would fall asleep anywhere—in the car, at the kitchen table, even in front of the TV, like a little toddler again.
Once the movie ended, we decided to stroll to our favorite restaurant, The Olive Grove, just a couple of blocks away. Lily held her American Girl doll, Julie, dressed in her finest outfit, with one hand while she took mine with the other. I tried not to dwell on how fleeting these moments are—the days when she still wants to hold my hand or finds joy in a simple dinner date for two.
In the cozy, wood-paneled booth, we ordered our favorites: children’s nachos to start, a glass of ginger ale for her and sauvignon blanc for me, along with plain pasta and marinara sauce on the side, and a Cobb salad. Lately, Lily’s been ordering for herself, looking the server in the eye and saying, “Please, may I have.” It fills me with pride to see her grow in confidence. Our waitress brought the drinks, and Lily leaned forward to sip her bubbly ginger ale, her eyes flitting around the room as she took it all in. I watched her with a smile—she noticed me and grinned back before continuing her exploration of the restaurant.
Lily embodies my past with her chocolate brown eyes, holding memories of my early struggles as a mother, while she also represents my future, propelling me forward as I marvel at how quickly she’s growing. Sometimes, when I’m with her, I feel like I’m tumbling through the years, reflecting on my own childhood in a kaleidoscope of shared experiences and differences. This connection deepens my bond with her but also amplifies my fears about parenting.
“Mummy?” Lily asked, breaking my reverie with a thoughtful question about Voldemort. I shook my head slightly to focus and answered her as best I could. When our nachos arrived, Lily giggled as she picked one up, lifting the whole plate. When our main courses came, she held her ginger ale glass with both hands and beamed at me, clinking her glass against mine. “Cheers!” she exclaimed. “It’s so much fun to have dinner just the two of us, Mum.” I blinked back tears, touched by the moment. Yes, I wanted to say, it truly is. But I feared that if I spoke, emotion would overwhelm me, scaring her. A single thought reverberated in my mind: We won’t return here again.
After dinner, we walked home, hand in hand.