“I wonder if the tooth fairy will come tonight.”
A gentle reminder from my daughter — don’t forget.
Normally, I’d nudge him later, when she was asleep.
“Remind me,” I’d whisper. Or, “Can you do it?”
“Put in extra — make up for me missing last night.”
But the tightness in my chest, and the slow, steady churn in my stomach, remind me — mhe’s not here.
So I set my alarm for 6am, naming it Tooth Fairy.
A quiet pretence that I’ll get deep sleep tonight, not the fragmented kind I’ve had for five nights now.
In and out of dreams that are not really dreams.
Nightmares that don’t fade when I open my eyes.
Checking and rechecking my phone.
What is that urge — every damn ten minutes —
to check, just in case he text?
Like the stomach is hoping before the mind can stop it.
Hoping for a message that holds love, or softness, or something that says:
I still care.
You’re still safe.
I didn’t really mean to go.
But my heavy heart knows.
That message isn’t coming.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
And yet —
that fairy will rise at 6am.
In grief. In sadness.
She will wipe away her tears
and fulfil just one of the many roles
of the mother still standing.