The police came later that night. There had been an accident — a driver under the influence had crossed the lane. I remember the officers speaking, but all I could hear was my heartbeat and the rain.
The days that followed blurred together. The house was silent, and I felt like a stranger in my own life. I stopped answering the phone. I stopped cooking. I stopped everything. I didn’t live — I just existed.
Then, one gray afternoon, something caught my eye at a bus stop — a simple Halloween flyer. It showed smiling kids in costumes and read: “Help our children celebrate. Donate a costume and bring joy this Halloween.”
For the first time in years, I felt something stir.
That night, I went into the attic for the first time since the accident. There, beneath boxes of old memories, I found my children’s costumes. Emily’s little bumblebee outfit. Josh’s firefighter uniform. A pirate hat. Tiny plastic pumpkins. I held the bumblebee costume close and whispered, “These shouldn’t just sit here. They should make someone happy.”
The next morning, I drove to a local shelter and donated the box. But when I came home, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time — purpose. So I decided to do more.
I asked neighbors and friends for donations, explaining what I was doing. Within days, my car was overflowing with costumes — superheroes, fairies, pirates, princesses. When I brought them to the shelter, the coordinator, Sarah, smiled. “You’ve just made a lot of kids very happy,” she said. Then she asked, “Would you come to our Halloween party this weekend? The children would love to meet you.”
I almost said no. But something inside me — maybe hope — said yes.
At the party, I watched children laugh and dance in the costumes we’d collected. For the first time in years, I felt peace. Then, a little girl tugged on my sleeve. She was wearing Emily’s bumblebee outfit.
“Are you Miss Alison?” she asked. “Miss Sarah said you brought the costumes.”
I nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
She hugged me tightly. “Thank you! I always wanted to be a bumblebee!”
Her joy was so pure that it broke something open in my heart. Then she looked up at me and said softly, “My mom couldn’t take care of me. Maybe you could be my mom?”
Her words took my breath away. “Would you like that?” I asked gently.
She smiled. “You’re just right.” Then she ran off toward the candy table. “My name’s Mia!” she called back. “In case you want to know!”
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The next morning, I returned to the shelter. “I want to ask about adoption,” I told Sarah. “The little girl in the bumblebee costume.”
Sarah’s eyes softened. “She hasn’t stopped talking about you,” she said.
The process took weeks — background checks, home visits, interviews. They asked if I was ready to be a parent again after everything I’d lost. “Yes,” I said. “More than anything.”
Six weeks later, I got the call. It was official.
When I arrived at the shelter, Mia was coloring bees with purple crayons. She looked up, saw me, and ran into my arms. “You came back!” she said.
“I told you I would,” I whispered.
“Are you my mom now? For real?”
I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “If you’ll have me.”
She grinned. “Yes! A thousand times yes!”
That was two years ago.
Mia is eight now — bright, curious, and full of life. She still loves bees and says she wants to be a “bee doctor” someday because “bees make honey, and honey makes people happy.”
Our home is loud again — full of laughter, messes, and music. I still miss Mark, Josh, and Emily every day, but I’ve learned that love doesn’t end when life changes. Sometimes, it simply finds new ways to reach us.
That Halloween flyer didn’t just help children. It helped me rediscover hope. And every time Mia runs around the house singing or drawing bees, I’m reminded that even after unthinkable loss, love has a way of finding its way back home.