I always anticipated this moment would arrive, yet knowing it was coming didn’t soften the blow. Grief, I’ve learned, isn’t eased by forewarning. A part of me clung to the illusion that life could remain unchanged, that my children’s experiences would mirror my own. But that was a fantasy.
My father, who passed away over five years ago, held the title of the Tooth Fairy. It’s a charming story that began eleven years ago when my eldest child was in preschool—long before illness and late-night calls filled with fear. During a class discussion about jobs, my son, always inquisitive, wanted to understand the professions of our family members. Some relatives had straightforward jobs: firefighter, teacher, cashier. But my father’s role was trickier to explain.
As a dental technician, he crafted dentures for those who had lost their teeth. I did my best to clarify this to my son, and he quickly made the leap: Grandpa made teeth, so he must be the Tooth Fairy. To a four-year-old, it was a logical conclusion. That night, I called Dad to share his new title. He laughed heartily, embracing the role with joy. From that moment on, whenever the kids lost a tooth or faced dental visits, they called on him. He was the reassuring voice that calmed their fears and encouraged them to take care of their teeth.
Then came cancer, and he was taken from us. Despite his passing, he continued in spirit; even after his death, he took the last tooth lost on his watch tucked in his pocket. The kids convinced themselves he now had wings to accompany his tutu. Instead of calls, they left notes under their pillows, hoping for replies.
This summer, my middle child lost her final baby tooth, and my 8-year-old lost yet another. My daughter shared a unique bond with Grandpa; as a baby, she was his little cuddle bug, and his passing affected her deeply. She always believed he would be with her as long as she had baby teeth. After losing her last molar, she penned a note for him. I don’t think she fully grasps what this means yet. Sometimes, in her eagerness to grow up, she overlooks the childhood joys she is leaving behind. Perhaps that’s for the best. I won’t draw attention to it.
Soon after, her younger brother finally lost his third tooth. He’s always been a late bloomer, taking his time with both gaining and losing teeth. When he finally lost one, he placed it beneath his pillow, like his siblings before him. However, for him, the Tooth Fairy is just a whimsical figure. He was only two when Grandpa died, and any memories he has are mere shadows, shaped by photos and stories from others.
Realizing this truth hit me hard. I knew this day would come, but I wasn’t truly ready for it. The stark reality is that my younger children won’t remember my father. My youngest, born after his passing, will only know him through tales told by others. For a fleeting moment, I pondered ways to keep the Tooth Fairy legend alive, thinking of involving my older children to share their stories. But I soon recognized that this yearning was for me, not for them. I cannot let my grief influence their memories. I won’t impose that burden on them.
So, I will quietly let go of this piece of my father, once again. This journey belongs to me, and I must ensure it remains that way. Thank you, Dad, for the nights filled with silver coins, $2 bills, and sweet notes. Your legacy as the Tooth Fairy was unparalleled, but even the greatest must eventually step back.
With love, always.
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Summary: In this heartfelt reflection, Jamie Collins shares the poignant memories of her father, who was affectionately known as the Tooth Fairy. Despite his passing, the legacy of his connection with his grandchildren lives on through stories and memories. As they navigate the bittersweet end of a childhood tradition, Jamie grapples with the reality that her younger children will not remember their grandfather, yet she resolves to honor his memory in her own way.