My daughter, my mother and I are deeply connected.  I found out I was expecting my Abigail the day my mother was diagnosed with the brain cancer that would claim her life. While my mother was in a deep coma, the one expected to end her life,  I went into labor. I was 35, my mom 57.

My water broke as I gave my mom a final kiss. I was escorted down two floors to the room where four hours and three lifetimes later, my daughter came head first into the room with eyes wide and mouth agape ready to take on the world.

An hour later my phone rang. It was my mother calling to congratulate me on Abigail’s safe arrival – it was February 12. The doctors called it a miracle. I called it two.

Two days later, Valentine’s Day, Abby and I were on our way home, and my mom was transferred to a long term care facility – Abby and I were her first visitors.

My mom lived 18 months after that – the power of Abigail -she claimed. I believed her as the resemblance was beyond uncanny. And then there was the pink bug.

Visiting a local amusement park, we offered each child the opportunity to choose a gift. My daughter chose the only thing she could reach –  a long, pink, stuffed caterpillar with many multi-colored feet and a contagious grin. “For gamma,” she told me in her too young to speak properly voice.

Six months later, my mom was seven days away from her 58th birthday. It was on this day she lost her fight. Abigail was 18 months old.

By now that pink toy had been christened bug by her brothers and was her best friend. Bug is in nearly every picture we’ve ever taken of Abby; with or without others. He’s had feet sewn back on so many times that they are backwards, crooked and of many faded multi-colors. What used to be pink is now a faded dirt-color with pink streaks. He has been well loved.

Bug has been on every vacation, he went to Kindergarten, and he once spent a week on the bottom of a friend’s pool while we paced restlessly night after night praying for a miracle. It came when said friend returned from vacation and delivered bug soggy but safe, back home.

But a funny thing happened on the way to 13 – bug became less important. If he was out of her sight for an hour or two, we didn’t have a panicked search. She’s been on sleepovers without bug in tow, he didn’t accompany her to the junior high, and he is no longer the first one she runs to with her secrets.

My heart is a tiny bit broken. This morning my daughter, or at least her body, transitioned into womanhood and my mom is not here to call. I suddenly feel so vulnerable, lost and old. I am not sure how to handle this transition without both the pink bug and gamma. I am amazed by my range of emotions.

Truth be told, part of me is filled with joy at the possibility of sharing womanhood confidences, of watching her body and soul blossom and of imagining who she will become.

She is a brilliant, confident, amazing young woman with the world at her feet. She stands by her three brothers better than any sentry at any gate, and she still loves to dance on my mom’s grave with gleeful abandon whenever we deliver flowers.

Her name is Abigail, and the world should be prepared when she finally breaks free of the chrysalis like her bug and her grandma before her, and emerges with wings flapping ready to take on the world!