I was eight, curled up next to my mom on the couch as she read Little Women to me. Her voice was steady and soothing, giving me just enough time to process the sadness before moving on.

Back then, I didn’t understand Beth. She was too meek, too perfect. I wanted her to stand up for herself, to stop giving so much of herself away. At eight, I didn’t know what to do with a character who wasn’t flashy, fierce, or loud.

And then Beth died.

Quietly. Tenderly.

It felt like a betrayal. Weren’t the good ones supposed to live forever? Didn’t kindness mean something? But there she was, slipping away, leaving her family—and me—shattered. I clutched the book to my chest as if that could bring her back, but even then, I knew: once someone’s gone, no amount of wishing changes it.

My mom tried to comfort me, but she didn’t sugarcoat it.
"That’s life sometimes," she said softly.

And I hated that she was right.

The Evolution of Understanding

Years later, I went back to Little Women. Beth wasn’t some fragile, passive girl anymore. She was a quiet powerhouse—graceful, strong, steady. The heartbeat of her family.

And I finally understood: she wasn’t weak. She was brave in a way I hadn’t been ready to see.

She reminded me of someone.

My mother.

Losing the Real Beth

By the time I was 18, I didn’t need a book to teach me about loss. My mom died after a long, brutal battle with breast cancer.

Watching someone you love disappear piece by piece is a kind of torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone. She was in pain every single day, but her spirit never broke. Even in the end, when her body betrayed her, she faced death the way Beth did: quietly, with a strength that tore me apart.

I wasn’t strong like her. I was furious—at the world, at the disease, at how unfair it all was. Angry for her. Angry for me. But she wasn’t.

One day, she looked at me and said,
"I’ve lived my story. Now it’s time for you to live yours."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. What kind of line was that? We didn’t live in a storybook. But somehow, she did. And in her quiet, graceful way, she gave me the truth: death is inevitable.

I couldn’t grasp that kind of acceptance. I still can’t.

But I can still hear her voice, calm and steady, like she was reading me a story one last time.

The Stories That Hold Us Together

Stories were always our secret language. My mom could make anything feel magical. Even washing dishes became an adventure when she spun one of her tales. Sometimes, she’d write me little stories—miniature sagas she’d slide into my hands after dinner.

When she got sick, we reversed roles. I became the one reading to her. Sitting by her bedside, my voice was the only sound in the room as I read her favorite books. Those moments were our way of saying goodbye.

After she passed, I found myself reaching for Little Women again. This time, Beth’s death wasn’t just fiction—it was my grief staring back at me. Her quiet strength became my mother’s.

Beth and my mom blurred together in my mind. They loved, they gave everything, they left quietly.

When Fiction and Reality Blur

Grief doesn’t stay in neat little boxes. It spills into everything—twisting reality and fiction until you can’t tell the difference.

I’ve learned something about grief: it never goes away. You don’t beat it, and you don’t fix it. You carry it. Some days, it’s heavy. Some days, it’s lighter. But it’s always there.

And that’s okay.

What stories taught me—what Little Women and my mom taught me—is that grief is just love, turned inside out. And love is worth carrying, no matter how much it hurts.