My four-year-old daughter turns the aisle into her own dancing stage every time we go to the supermarket. Most of the time, people grin, but not this time. An older woman glared at us and said, “Your mother should teach you some manners.” In a calm voice, my daughter added, “Tell your husband.”
Let me start over and explain that my kid is not “shy.” Zariah has always had a lot of ideas and enthusiasm. She can’t help but move when she hears music. She spins to the music in the background at CVS or a ring tone on someone’s phone.
I never wanted to take that away from her. The world will eventually dull your shine. Why should I do it early? So when we’re in the store and she wants to skip next to the cart or spin like a ballerina near the apples, I let her. I protect her. I make sure she doesn’t get in the way.
But that day, she was dancing to a commercial that was playing next to the freezer. She did a little shimmy, tried to spin but failed, and ended with jazz hands. Nothing out of the ordinary. I smiled and quietly clapped while she bowed. Some people smiled as they passed past.
Next came this woman. Maybe around the late 1960s. That hairdo is neat and stiff, so it needs a lot of hairspray. She frowned and didn’t even stop her cart. “You should learn some manners from your mom,” she added in a quiet voice.
Zariah looked to Mom, bent her head, and said with that straight-faced, preschool snark, “Tell your husband.” I couldn’t even talk.
I blinked. The woman opened her mouth. Then she huffed and pushed through, shaking her head. I leaned down next to Zariah and asked, “Why did you say that, sweetie?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “She looked mean. I think she misses her husband.”
I had no idea where that came from. Could it be too many cartoons? It might simply be preschool logic. I didn’t give it much thought. But I wrote about it in a group for parents later that night. I did it just for fun.
By daybreak, it had more than 20,000 likes.
People were happy to have her back. There were memes. TikToks. There was even a cartoon made about it. People I didn’t know were laughing and clapping in my inbox, saying they needed that laugh. I was overwhelmed, but in a good manner most of the time.
But then I got a message that made me sick.
Someone who said they knew the woman at the business sent the message. They sent me a picture by email. It was her. She had on the same beige blazer and a tight curl set. It said, “That’s my aunt.” She is unhappy. Three weeks ago, her husband died. “She hasn’t been herself.”
I just sat there and stared at the TV. The moment wasn’t funny anymore all of a sudden. Zariah’s words seemed more serious. She wasn’t cruel; she just didn’t know. But it wasn’t only fun on the internet anymore.
I gave the picture to Zariah. “Do you remember this lady?”
She nodded her head. “She was sad.”
That’s the thing: kids have emotions. They don’t have filters, but they can see everything. Not only was her answer harsh. It was a gut feeling. She intuitively saw how upset this mother was and did what a four-year-old would do.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I delete the post? Apologize? Don’t touch it?
Before I could make a choice, I got another message. This time, it was the woman herself.
Her name was Renata. She had read the post. Her niece had told her.
She said, “I want you to know that your daughter reminded me that people see me.” Even when I don’t want them to.
She told me that she had been dragging herself through the day, doing chores because she couldn’t sit still. She told me how she was able to stop doing it. How she didn’t believe a little kid with sparkly shoes would call her out.
“I laughed,” she wrote, “for the first time in days. Then I began to cry.
I read the message twice. Again. It didn’t seem real. I asked her if she wanted to get together and talk.
She agreed.
We met at the park, which was a secure area for both of us. Zariah put on her pink tutu. Renata brought her dog, a nasty little terrier named Max.
I brought coffee.
At first, it was strange. Renata seemed gentler in person. She was still serene, but she seemed more like a person. She bent down on her knees to thank Zariah in person.
“You saw me, huh?”
Zariah nodded and gave her a sticker from her collection. “It has a shine to it.” When I’m depressed, it makes me feel better.
Renata blinked a lot. “Thank you, dear.”
Zariah raced after Max on the grass while we sat on a bench.
Renata told me about her husband, Elias. They had been together for 42 years. She thought back to when they used to dance to old songs in their kitchen on Saturdays. When he died, the music stopped, literally.
“I forgot what it sounded like until I saw her spinning in the freezer aisle,” she said.
She looked down at her cup of coffee. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. The quiet drove me crazy. No, not her.
I assured her I understood. That melancholy shows up in a peculiar way. That I didn’t blame her.
Then she said something that I will never forget.
“Your daughter reminded me that the music is still there.” I didn’t catch what you said.
After that, we kept in touch. We didn’t talk all the time, but we did talk often enough. Every Saturday, she went to the same park. She sometimes went with Max and other times brought stories.
Zariah fell in love with her. She dubbed her “Miss Renny.”
A few weeks later, Zariah asked Miss Renny if she might come to her birthday party. In the backyard, there is a tea party for princesses. Nothing fancy, just cupcakes and sparkles.
Renata had on a tiara. Dress all the way. She stated it used to belong to her granddaughter, who lived in an other nation. “She told me I could use it for special occasions.” This matters, right?
Zariah smiled.
I took a picture of them that day. Renata was on her knees next to Zariah. They both wore crowns and laughed so hard that their eyes were closed.
I uploaded that picture online. Not for the laughs this time, but for the comfort. The writing said:
“At first, she was a stranger at a store. She is now a part of our Saturdays. Grief and joy can dance together if we let them.
It didn’t spread like wildfire. Only 200 people liked the post. But that one was the most significant.
For the next few months, we kept teaching each other.
Renata taught Zariah how to bake. Zariah taught Renata how to use stickers in text messages.
I also learnt that events, good or bad, can open doors if you don’t close them.
Not every harsh thing someone says is meant to harm. Not every retort means someone is being rude.
Sometimes, it’s a bridge.
This is the bit that astonished me.
Zariah’s preschool called me one afternoon in early April. She told her students that her “grandfriend” was on their way to get her.
I was a little scared. I didn’t have any plans.
But when I got there, Renata was already there with a placard that said “Zariah’s Royal Chauffeur.” She had told everyone, even the school and my parents, about it. They hadn’t told me yet because they wanted to surprise me.
Zariah came out like a star, smiling and waving.
I was in tears.
This mother had yelled at my daughter for dancing before, but now she was driving her about like she was a queen.
What about karma? Maybe. But not the kind that desires revenge. The kind that makes you better.
Zariah made her smile. Renata taught her things.
And what about me? I was surprised to witness two generations pull each other back into the light.
Yes, that’s right. Let your child dance. Let the old lady frown. It’s okay for people to bump into each other in an awkward way from time to time.
You never know who might come to your yard wearing a crown.
Let life slowly smooth out the edges. Let kindness fill in the gaps.
If this makes you happy, please share it with someone who needs a smile. 💛