Margot had been giving me reasons to stay present since the day she was born.
At five years old, she also had very strong opinions about footwear.
“These are the best ones,” she informed me that morning, holding up a pair of shiny black shoes with tiny buckles. “They make a good sound.”
“They certainly do.”
“I’m going to be in Daddy’s pictures today.”
“You are.”
She looked at me seriously.
“Daddy said so.”
“Then Daddy said so.”
She had been excited about the wedding for two weeks.
She told neighbors.
She told the woman at the dry cleaner.
She even stopped once to tell a neighbor’s dog that she was going to be in her father’s wedding photographs.
That morning, her entire world seemed bright.
And then someone took part of that brightness away.
Margot is my granddaughter.
She is Phoebe’s daughter.
Which means, to me, she is proof that my daughter was once here, that she loved, that she created a life, and that some piece of her remained in this world.
Margot has Phoebe’s eyes.
Exactly.
I notice them every time I look at her.
She has her father Emmett’s strong little build and a fearless way of running toward things instead of away from them.
Her laugh, however, belongs entirely to her.
