I always knew this moment would arrive. Yet, knowing doesn’t lessen the sting. Grief is seldom softened by forewarning, a lesson I’ve learned repeatedly. A part of me remained in denial, clinging to the belief that my children’s experiences would mirror my own, holding on to the magic of childhood longer than reality would allow.
My father, who left us more than five years ago, was the embodiment of the Tooth Fairy. It’s a whimsical tale. He earned this title when my eldest was just a preschooler, long before the darkness of illness crept into our lives. Back then, my son was a curious little boy fascinated by the various jobs within our family.
In class that day, they discussed professions. Some family members had easily understandable roles: firefighter, police officer, accountant, and even a writer. My father’s role, however, required a bit more explanation. As a dental technician, he crafted dentures and partials for those who had lost their natural teeth. I did my best to convey this to my son, and in a heartbeat, he concluded that Grandpa made teeth for people, which logically meant he was the Tooth Fairy. To a four-year-old, that made absolute sense.
That night, I called Dad and shared his newfound title. He chuckled and wholeheartedly embraced the role. From that point on, whenever a tooth was lost or a dental visit loomed, my children would reach out to him. He was the one who calmed their nerves before procedures and reminded them why flossing was essential. He became the first call whenever a tooth came out.
But then cancer struck, and he was taken from us. Even in death, he retained that title. When he passed, we named our Relay for Life team after him, honoring his legacy. He even took the last tooth lost on his watch with him, tucked safely in his pocket. The kids concluded he must have sprouted wings and donned a tutu in the afterlife, making perfect sense to them.
Instead of phone calls, they began leaving notes under their pillows, hoping he would write back. This summer, my middle child lost her final tooth, while my now-eight-year-old lost his third. She shared a special bond with Grandpa, her tender spirit connecting with him deeply. His passing affected her profoundly, and she always believed he would be there for her as long as she had baby teeth. When she lost her last molar, she penned a note to him, though I don’t think she fully grasped the weight of it yet.
She’s so eager to grow up that she sometimes overlooks the childhood treasures she leaves behind. Perhaps that’s for the best; I have no intention of pointing it out to her.
A few days later, her little brother finally lost his third tooth. He had been slow to lose his baby teeth, with roots that seemed stubbornly entrenched. After losing his tooth, he tucked it under his pillow, just like the older siblings had done. For him, the Tooth Fairy remains just that—a fairy. He was only two when Grandpa passed, and any memories he may have are mere echoes, woven from photographs and stories shared by others.
Coming to terms with this was a journey in itself. The reality is that my younger children won’t have the same memories of my dad. My youngest was born after he was gone, so to him, Grandpa will only ever be a character in a story.
For a fleeting moment, I contemplated maintaining the Tooth Fairy’s legacy, thinking of enlisting my older kids to share their stories. It was a desperate urge to keep a piece of my father alive. However, I realized that this desire stemmed from my own grief, not theirs. I can’t impose my feelings on them, and I refuse to do so.
It’s time to let go, quietly. This farewell is mine alone, and I need to ensure it remains that way.
Thank you, Dad, for those magical years filled with silver coins, two-dollar bills, and sweet notes exchanged. You were the greatest Tooth Fairy in existence, but even the best must eventually retire. Love you always.
For more insights into personal experiences, check out our post on home insemination and explore resources like Fertility Booster for Men and Donor Insemination.