I always knew this day would arrive. Yet, knowing doesn’t ease the pain. Grief doesn’t care for advance warnings; I’ve learned that lesson more than once. Deep down, I was in denial, hoping that life would remain unchanged, that my kids would have experiences like mine, even though I knew better.
My father, who passed away over five years ago, held the unofficial title of the Tooth Fairy. It’s a quirky tale that began 11 years ago when my oldest was in preschool, long before the word “cancer” became a part of our vocabulary or the frantic phone calls and hospice visits started.
Back then, my son was a curious little guy, eager to learn about the jobs of family members. In preschool, they discussed occupations. Some were easy to explain: police officer, firefighter, teacher, cashier. But my dad’s job as a dental technician—designing dentures—required a bit more explanation. My son quickly connected the dots: Grandpa made teeth for people who lost them, so naturally, he must be the Tooth Fairy. It was a revelation that made perfect sense to a 4-year-old.
That evening, I called Dad to inform him of his new role. He chuckled and embraced the title with enthusiasm. From then on, whenever the kids had loose teeth or dentist visits, they would reach out to him. He calmed the anxious ones before procedures and reminded them why flossing was essential. He was their first call when a tooth was lost.
Then came cancer, and he was taken from us. We even named our Relay for Life fundraising team in his honor. Surprisingly, he kept his Tooth Fairy title in death. He even took the last tooth lost while he was alive, tucked safely in his shirt pocket. The kids imagined he now had wings and a tutu, so it all made sense.
Instead of calling him, they began leaving him notes when they lost teeth, hoping for a reply.
This summer, my middle child lost her final baby tooth, and my youngest lost his third. My middle child had a special bond with Grandpa; her sensitive nature made his passing particularly hard for her. She always believed, as long as she had baby teeth, he would be there. When she lost her last molar and left her final note, I don’t think she fully grasped its significance.
She’s so eager to grow up that she may not realize what she’s leaving behind. Perhaps that’s for the best. I won’t be the one to remind her.
A few days later, my little guy finally lost his third tooth. He’s been slow to lose his baby teeth, but when it finally happened, he tucked it under his pillow like all his older siblings. However, for him, the Tooth Fairy is just that—a magical figure. He was only two when my dad passed, and any memories he might have are mere fragments shaped by photos and stories from others.
That realization hit me hard. I sat with it, really sat with it, longer than I expected. I always knew this day would come, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality that my children, so young when my dad died, wouldn’t all remember him. My youngest will only know him through stories.
For a brief moment, I considered keeping the Tooth Fairy alive by having my older kids share their memories, a desperate attempt to maintain that connection. But that was for me. I realized I couldn’t impose my grief on them. This is my journey, not theirs.
So, I’ll let him go quietly, once more. This is my loss to carry, and I need to honor that.
Thank you, Dad, for all those years of sneaking around, leaving behind coins and gum, for the letters that sparked joy. You were the best Tooth Fairy in the universe, but even the greatest must eventually retire. Love you.