When I was a little girl, my mother used to sit me on her lap and hold me close. She would gaze at me with those eyes full of love and ask, “Who lights up my world?” before showering me with tender kisses. “I do! I do!” I’d shout through giggles, my tiny arms squirming against her embrace. When the love fest ended, she would look me square in the eye and softly say, “That’s right, baby.” It’s a memory etched into my heart—one that has stayed with me my entire life.
I always knew I wanted to carry this small, magical tradition forward with a daughter of my own. When my mother passed away from breast cancer, that promise became even more sacred. Three years later, when I gave birth to a beautiful 8 lbs 4 oz baby girl, I felt her presence in the room as if my mother were smiling down at us. That was the moment I knew it was time to start our tradition again.
When little Lucy arrived, I held her in my arms and gazed into her deep black eyes. I asked softly, “Who lights up my world?” She couldn’t answer, of course, but I kissed her tiny face again and whispered, “You do.” As she grew from a newborn into an infant, and then a toddler, the ritual continued. Every day, I’d ask, “Who lights up my world?” and shower her with kisses, repeating, “You do.” One day, amidst giggles and sunshine-filled laughter, she finally answered back, “Me!” My heart melted. She truly did light up my world. She filled the void left by my mother’s passing and taught me to love more deeply than I ever thought possible.
By the time Lucy was five and a half, her hair fell in soft black waves beneath her shoulders, framing a face as beautiful inside as it was out. She was gentle, sweet, and endlessly kind—always offering help when I was juggling a million tasks. I remember her tear-filled eyes the first time I dropped her off at school and the way her belly shook with laughter whenever her clumsy dad tripped or made silly faces. My dream had always been to raise her into the kind of woman my mother was, and every day, she was already proving to be that remarkable, loving soul.
But life can be cruel and unthinkable. It was a rainy Saturday night in April. I was running errands, picking up groceries, planning my husband’s birthday lunch for the next day. At an intersection, I looked both ways before going, even though the light was green. A black Jeep came barreling toward us on my right. I assumed it would stop—it had a red light. It didn’t. It slammed into the back-right door, the one shielding my Lucy. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even have time. The last sound I heard from her was a deep gasp—her final breath. The car spun, tipped on its side, and I was trapped in my seatbelt, unable to reach her. I screamed her name over and over, “MY BABY! BABY, PLEASE! JUST OPEN YOUR EYES!” And then, blackness.
When I woke, red and blue lights flashed outside. My seatbelt was cut, and I was placed on a stretcher. Everything was blurry. A white sheet covered my baby. Then came the hospital, the words I will never forget: “I’m sorry, she did not make it.” My universe shattered. There were screams, tears, vomit, swollen eyes, unbearable pain. My daughter was gone. It was only 5:18 p.m.
A year and a half has passed, yet every day, the ache remains. Two days ago, I found myself in the bathroom, crying into the mirror, whispering prayers for her return, no matter how impossible. Then I saw it—a little duck nightlight, the same one that had been in her room since birth. It had stopped working years ago, yet in that moment, it flickered on. I couldn’t explain it. Peace, not grief, flowed through me.
Through my tears, I whispered, “You light up my world—you do, you do.” Even in death, she remains my light. I feel her presence, watching over me, alongside my mother. And I know, in my heart, that one day, I will see them both again. Until then, I carry their love with me, and finally, I am at peace.
