By Elizabeth Candy
@lifeafterlil

My daughter’s college graduation marked a milestone not just for her—but for me, too. As my children grow older, I’m beginning to understand that parenthood doesn’t end, but it shifts. I’m learning how to show up in new ways—sometimes quietly, from the sidelines—still holding space for the two who are here, and for the one who isn’t.

The weekend was filled with pride, love, and joy—but also with grief. The emotion came in waves—raw, layered, hard to untangle. I felt like a ball of tightly wound wool—every feeling knotted together. But somewhere in the tangle, the threads began to loosen. The edges of who I was started to soften and stretch, unraveling into something new.

It was two days of watching my daughter shine—laughing with friends, glowing with pride, making plans for what comes next. There was a buzz in the air: programs fluttering, last-minute logistics, the hum of families meeting for the first time. Her boyfriend’s family joined us, adding another beautiful, complicated layer to it all.

It was a peak moment—one we’d been climbing toward for years.

And then came the ceremony.

We watched from the stands as she crossed the stage—cap bobbing, tassel swinging, name called. I felt something catch in my chest. Pride, yes. Immense pride. But also a quiet ache. A hollow echo.

Because not all of my daughters were there.

Her older sister should have been with us—alternating between singing her name and asking when we could go eat. She would’ve slipped into the family photos with that signature half-smile and glint in her eye that said she was proud, even if she couldn’t say the words out loud. But she wasn’t there. Her absence has become the silent companion to all our milestones. And on this day, it sat heavily beside the joy.

After the ceremony, we posed for pictures, smiled through the weight of it all, and held the moment in our bones. Then came the crash—that familiar post-celebration ache, when the wave crests and you tumble into the undertow of feeling. We were all in it. Especially my daughter, who carried the thrill of accomplishment, the stress of what comes next, and the sting of who was missing.

Another ending. Another chapter closed. Another moment she didn’t get to share with her sister.

There have been so many.

Later, as we took one final stroll through campus, saying goodbye to her college life, we paused as the sun was setting behind the trees. That’s when something small and unexpected happened: a ladybug landed on my pant leg. Natalie saw it instantly. Her eyes lit up—she has always adored ladybugs. She bent down and gently let it crawl onto her finger. It lingered just long enough to be noticed, then fluttered away on the wind.

And I thought of my oldest.

Of how deeply she loved her siblings—her brother, and especially Nat.

Of how, though she was the oldest, her different abilities often meant she was treated as the youngest.

Of how fierce and pure that love was.

Was the ladybug a sign? A tiny hello? A whisper of love from the daughter we were all quietly missing?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But it felt like something.

Something small. And perfect. And impossibly well-timed.

Exactly the kind of thing she would do.

Grief doesn’t step aside for joy. It walks with it—quietly, steadily. It lingers at the edges of the photo, just out of frame. And sometimes, if you’re paying attention, it shows up as a ladybug on a breezy evening, reminding you that absence can still hold presence. That endings and beginnings often arrive together. That love, even unspoken, still knows how to show up.

My role as a mother is changing. I’m no longer the center of their daily lives, but I’m still their witness, their grounding, their quiet anchor. One daughter steps forward into her adult life as a nurse. Her twin is heading to grad school in the fall. And one child lives only in memory. I’m learning how to parent in this new space—not defined by doing, but by being. And even in the shifting landscape of motherhood, love continues to reveal itself.

Sometimes in the obvious moments.

And sometimes, in the smallest of signs.

Elizabeth Candy is a mother and writer who explores the quiet intersections of grief, memory, and motherhood. This essay grew from a moment that refused to stay small.

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