I used to think grief was quiet. Something you carried alone.
But when my daughter Naomi was born, my mother-in-law, Denise, started telling people she’d been given a second chance.
She meant it sweetly, I think — she said it with tears in her eyes at the hospital, one hand over her chest, the other gently tracing Naomi’s cheek.
I used to think grief was quiet.
I was still groggy from the epidural, but I remember watching her face — reverent, trembling, almost like she was praying.
But Denise has always had a way of making offers sound like decisions.
“You look tired, Nina,” she said, already reaching for Naomi’s coat. “Let me take her off your hands for a while.”
She smiled when she said it. That’s the thing about Denise — she always smiles, like everything she says is for your own good.
“You look tired, Nina.”
Finn, my husband, calls it helpful.
I call it nothing but a performance.
The first time she asked for alone time with Naomi, I said yes. I shouldn’t have. Not because I thought something bad would happen, but because I didn’t know what it would… change.
But I also knew that I couldn’t hesitate; Denise would take offense, and Finn would probably be in a mood about it.
I didn’t know what it would… change.
“Don’t you trust me, Nina? I’m her grandmother! I just want to spoil her and let her know that I’ll always be around.”
I’ll admit that it was annoying, but honestly, I thought it was harmless.
It started out like any other Sunday.
Denise dropped Naomi off with a wave, then pulled away before I could ask how things went. My daughter was seven and mostly carefree, but there were times when she just wanted things done a certain way.
“Don’t you trust me, Nina?”
Naomi didn’t rush in like always, ready to give me a tight hug. Instead, she stepped inside slowly, her shoes still on, and her arms tucked inside her sleeves.
“Hey, little love,” I said, smiling and opening my arms. “Good day with Grandma, huh?”
She didn’t react much — just stared at me, her head cocked a little to the left.
“Are you hungry, baby? I’ve got strawberries in the fridge, and there’s chocolate we can melt.”
“No,” she said, too quickly. “No, Mom.”
“Good day with Grandma, huh?”
She walked into the kitchen and stood near the counter, eyes darting toward the hallway.
“Naomi? Where are you going? Don’t you want to do something together?”
I assumed that if she didn’t want a snack, then at least she’d want to play with her toys and me.
Her voice came so soft I almost missed it. “Mom… Grandma said not to tell you what we do there.”
“What do you mean?”
“She told me not to tell, Mom.” Her eyes filled, but she looked down at her polka-dotted socks. “Grandma said that it’s just between us. I had to promise.”
“Grandma said not to tell you what we do there.”
“Even so, honey. If something felt weird or confusing, you can talk to me. You can tell me anything, you know that, right? I won’t be upset.”
My daughter didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, her face pressed into my side. I held her tightly, smoothing her hair. I didn’t ask again.
But a sudden unease cracked open in me.
That night, I brought it up to Finn while he brushed his teeth.
My daughter didn’t answer.
“She told Naomi not to tell me what they do together. That can’t be normal. Right?”
He looked at me in the mirror, his mouth full of toothpaste. “They’re probably planning some sort of surprise, Nina. Why do you always go looking for drama?”
“It didn’t feel like they were planning something… Look, something doesn’t feel right.”
He spat into the sink and sighed.
“Was Naomi upset?”
“She seemed… unsure. Like she was holding something in.”
“Look, something doesn’t feel right.”
“She’s seven. Maybe it was a game. Or maybe Mom was just trying to get her to do chores.”
“Or maybe it wasn’t, Finn. You really don’t think it’s strange?”
He wiped his face with a towel. “You’re tired, Nina. Mom’s just trying to help. Let it go.”
That word again — help. It stuck in my throat.
The following afternoon, I found a photo tucked inside Naomi’s backpack.
“You really don’t think it’s strange?”
It had worn edges, and the colors were fading — it looked well-loved. A little girl stood in front of a brick house, her hair in two perfect braids, and she wore a yellow dress. She was smiling sweetly.
She looked like Naomi — but she wasn’t. I flipped it over.
“To Mommy.
You’re the best!
Love, Becca.”
She looked like Naomi — but she wasn’t.
There was an addition in another handwriting: “1992.”
I showed the photo to Finn while our daughter was getting ready for bed. He stared at it for a long time, eyes narrowing like he was trying to remember something through fog.
“That’s Becca,” he finally said. “My sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“She died before my 10th birthday. I barely remember her. I haven’t seen a photo of her in years.”
“That’s Becca.”
“Okay, but why was this in Naomi’s backpack?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. Honestly, Naomi kind of looks like her…”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not when my daughter started humming unfamiliar lullabies. Not when she asked for tuna pasta instead of chicken parmesan — her longtime favorite.
And not when she came home from Denise’s, wearing sweaters I’d never seen, reading books with publication dates older than she was.
“Okay, but why was this in Naomi’s backpack?”
“Where did this come from?” I asked Naomi once, holding up a faded paperback.
“It’s Bee’s,” she said. “Grandma said I could borrow it.”
“Who’s Bee, baby?”
“I don’t know the old Bee, but I’m the new one,” she whispered.
By the following week, Naomi had her hair in braids — two tight, symmetrical ones. She insisted on wearing them to school, even though they gave her headaches and pulled at her hair.
“I don’t know the old Bee, but I’m the new one.”
“Grandma says it’s neater this way,” Naomi said, her voice low. “And neat is always good for school.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab my keys and go straight to Denise’s house and demand to know what was happening. Instead, I took my thoughts to my husband again.
“She’s dressing our child in Becca’s clothes,” I said. “She’s giving her Becca’s books and calling her the ‘new Bee.’ Come on, Finn. Admit it’s weird.”
I wanted to scream.
“I think my mother’s just grieving.”
“No, honey. She’s rewriting something. And maybe it’s rooted in grief, sure. But this isn’t healthy for either of them.”
“She’s not doing it on purpose,” he said. “Naomi reminds her of Becca. That’s all. Let her have this. Maybe it’s helping her cope… that’s something my father and I could never do.”
“She’s turning my daughter into a ghost.”
I needed proof. I needed something real — not just my gut screaming in silence.
“She’s turning my daughter into a ghost.”
So when Denise texted to ask if she could take Naomi for ice cream, I said yes. Then I grabbed my keys. I stayed two cars behind, driving slowly. Every time I turned the wheel, my hands felt damp.
They didn’t go to Denise’s house. Instead, they turned onto a side road I’d never noticed before — tree-lined, narrow, and quiet. It was the kind of place where the air felt too still.
At the end of a long gravel driveway sat a small house — no, a cottage. The paint was fading, green curling at the corners. They went inside.
I stayed two cars behind, driving slowly.
Ten minutes passed before Denise came out, holding a photo frame to her chest. She sat on the porch swing, lit a citronella candle, and stared into the trees.
A few minutes later, Naomi stepped out. Her hair was in braids now, and she wore a yellow sweater that hung off her shoulders.
They didn’t speak at first; they just sat there in silence. Then Denise pulled out a small notebook and read something aloud.
A few minutes later, Naomi stepped out.
Naomi listened, quiet and focused. And then, she laughed. I flinched, not because it was wrong, but because her laugh didn’t sound like hers. My daughter reached over and took her grandmother’s hand, pressing it to her cheek.
I couldn’t look away.
Later that night, when Naomi was asleep, I opened her nightstand drawer. Inside was a gold locket. I opened it, expecting to see a photo of Finn, Naomi, and me.
Her laugh didn’t sound like hers.
Instead, I found a photo of Denise holding a baby girl on one side, and the girl from the photo in the backpack on the other side. It was Becca. I brought it to Finn, holding it out like evidence.
“My mom used to wear this every day after Becca died,” he said. “I thought she buried it.”
“Did you ever wonder why she stopped?”
He hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor.
“I thought she buried it.”
“Because now Naomi has it… Are you still sure that nothing weird is going on?”
He didn’t answer. When I showed up at Denise’s door, she didn’t seem surprised. She opened it slowly, her expression soft but tired.
“Nina,” she said with a small smile, like she’d been expecting me.
“We need to talk about Naomi.”
She stepped aside without a word and led me to the kitchen. The kettle was already on.
“Are you still sure that nothing weird is going on?”
We stood in silence while she prepared the tea. She didn’t ask how I took it — she remembered.
“Denise, my daughter is not… Becca.”
“I know, honey. I know.”
“Then why have you been doing… all that? She called herself the ‘new Bee.’ Do you know how many things are wrong with that alone?”
“Do you know what it’s like to lose a child?” she asked, her hands trembling as she set the mugs down on the table.
“Denise, my daughter is not… Becca.”
“No. But I do know what it’s like to raise one. And I won’t let mine become a shadow of someone else.”
She sat down slowly. “She reminded me so much of Becca. At first, it was small things. Like the way she held a crayon, and her laugh, even her handwriting. Then she started asking questions, and I just… I answered.”
“You didn’t just answer, Denise. You pulled her into someone else’s story.”
“She liked the stories. She wanted to wear the sweaters, and she said that I smiled more when she wore them.”
“She’s seven. She’s still learning who she is. And instead of helping her grow into that, you handed her a script.”
“You pulled her into someone else’s story.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Denise whispered. “I just missed my Becca so much. And I — I thought maybe I could feel her again. Just for a moment…”
“You can miss her. Of course, you can. But not through Naomi. She’s your grandchild, not a stand-in for Becca. And I’m not going to let her forget herself to keep you from falling apart.”
“So what now?” she asked, looking up and finally meeting my eyes.
“I’m setting a boundary. You need help, real help. Grief counseling, therapy — something. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“So what now?”
“And Naomi?”
“If you want unsupervised time with her again, you go to therapy. That’s the deal. Otherwise, visits happen with me. No exceptions.”
“You’d really do that?”
I looked at the older woman sitting across from me, and my heart went out to her. I couldn’t imagine a world without my daughter, and yet, Denise had to live in a world without her own child.
“That’s the deal…”
I was upset and concerned, of course. But I was also deeply sympathetic to Denise.
“I don’t want to,” I confessed. “But I will. Because I’m a mother, and I can’t imagine the loss you’ve carried all these years.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll try.”
That night, as I brushed Naomi’s hair, she was quiet for a long time.
“I liked being Bee,” she said after a moment.
“I know, sweetheart, but you don’t need to be anyone other than yourself.”
“I liked being Bee.”
“It made Grandma smile. She cried sometimes, even when we laughed.”
“Do you know why?”
“Because she missed Becca?”
“Yes, and maybe,” I said, brushing a strand behind her ear. “Maybe because she started missing you, too.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby, you were kind. You were loving. And you were everything Grandma needed you to be. She’s hurting, and that’s okay.”
“Maybe because she started missing you, too.”
“I want to just be Naomi again.”
“You never stopped being Naomi, my little love,” I whispered.
I thought about Denise and how small her voice had been.
“Mom, Grandma told me not to tell…”
But she did.
And I’m never letting anyone silence her again.