Tanya Wins an Award!

During my absence from the world of Romance, I was privileged to serve as the Managing Editor for a local parenting publication. While we won many awards for our content, my proudest moment was the Bronze award I received from Parenting Publications of America for my story, Letting Go. The subject matter was near and dear to my heart, and my inspiration was my beautiful daughter, Alaina. Read the article below.



Letting Go (For my daughter Alaina)

By Tanya A. Crosby

Just yesterday I was hollering at my daughter to clean her room — in vain, I should add. She was preoccupied with something else — anything else. But she was a child then; today she’s a woman. Sometime, during the long, dark night, she metamorphosed.
I remember when my mother’s mother died; somehow, over the course of her death, I changed, too. It was nothing I could put my finger on. Like, the passing of an invisible torch, one flame flickers in the winds of change, extinguishes and a fresh, new flame burns brighter.

At first, the change was apparent only in subtle ways; I went from thinking it was cool to sneak smokes to demanding that my parents stop their long-time, unhealthy habits. I made certain to check the oil in my car. I drew up a will so my kids would be cared for. Many years later, when my father grew ill, I offered encouragement in a voice much like the one he’d used with me when he’d taught me how to ride my bike, or tie my shoes. As he worsened, his mind drifting with his illness, I listened to him ramble, asking the same question time after time, reminding myself of the patience he’d shown when my 5-year-old self demanded to know, “How deep is the sky?” and, “Why did his face grow hair when mommy’s didn’t?” All these years later, after chemo, his face was soft and bare as a baby’s bottom and there was no innocence left in me to ask why; I knew.

Last night, I brought a child to the hospital, and in fear of what she would witness, commanded her to go home. Her dad would protect her from what I could not be spared — the death of my own father. She stubbornly refused and sat stoically in the hard, metal-framed chair, insisting she remain. Like so many times during the course of our 16-year relationship, we locked gazes. I stood there, looking at that face so like my own, and realized that, as her mother, I could win this test of wills if I chose. I could play that trump card. Again. But she was no longer 6, she was 16, and I was compelled to respect her wishes as she gave me that same firm look I’d so often given her when I was immovable in my decision — whether it be that, absolutely not, she couldn’t ride her bike until after she cleaned her messy room (and definitely not in the street), or when she was older, no, she couldn’t take the paddleboat out on the lake with friends (there were gators in that lake, after all — and worse yet, boys!).

As her mother, I was torn; she was my angel and I didn’t want her to be enveloped by the lowering cloud of sorrow in that room or be scarred by the grim reality of her grandfather’s death. But as my father’s daughter, my own daughter’s presence was my greatest comfort that night — more so than my mother’s, because the sight of my mother tormented me. I knew, inevitably, that at the end of the fight, she would walk out alone, divided and weakened. I should be stronger to compensate. But I wasn’t. So I relented and there my daughter sat, modestly accepting her victory, cradling the book she could hardly concentrate on for all the weeping surrounding her. She pretended to read, keeping her vigil and in the final moment, when, in my grief, I could not even comfort my own mother, my daughter was the first to race to her side, as though she’d anticipated the moment.

That night, I was too numb to realize another torch had passed. But as we walked arm-in-arm down the sterile, white corridor, I noticed, for the first time, that I was looking, not down at my baby, but eye-to-eye with my daughter. She was not the child she once was, nor was I the one supporting her in my arms; she was supporting me.

I said, “I wanted to spare you.”

She answered in a grown-up, rational voice, “Thank you for letting me stay. It was the last thing grandpa asked me to do … take care of you, mom.”

I nodded, oblivious in my grief, but the following week, as I passed her room … I noticed that she was dutifully cleaning. Amazed, I walked away. And it occurred to me in that instant that nothing would ever be the same. Another torch had consumed itself, flickered and extinguished; another was lit. Some day, mine would grow dimmer, but not before hers grew brighter. That should make me sad, but it doesn’t; I can’t wait to see where she will carry it.

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