“Mama, can you spray the perfume?”
Every morning, with tears in her eyes, she would softly ask for a mist of my perfume—her favorite scent of mine.
As she got ready for school, I could see her struggle growing heavier each day. Anxiety tightened her chest and shadowed her mornings. But a small spray of perfume, gently resting on her wrist or tucked into one of my scarves, gave her a sense of comfort.
It became our morning ritual. She would ask for a spritz, I would spray it on both of us, and I’d remind her that we’d be thinking of each other. Whenever she felt anxious or missed me, she could smell her wrist or snuggle into the scarf, and it would feel like I was right there with her.
Years went by like this—perfume, scarves, quiet worries, and her big sister walking her to class. Each time she stepped into that colorful classroom filled with posters and charts, she was really stepping into her fear. A fear of being away from her mama. A fear of being apart from her twin, just one room away. And as her anxiety held her tight, my heart ached just down the road.
Now, when I catch even the faintest trace of that perfume, I’m taken back to those mornings. But today, I look at her with awe. She has grown into a young woman full of strength, calm, and resilience—someone who can comfort others when their own anxiety rises.
She carries with her a quiet truth: that a piece of home, and a lot of mama’s perfume, will always be enough to guide her through the hardest days.
