The Tooth Fairy...Documented

In the fog of early grief after my husband died, I forgot my daughter lost a tooth.

Emmy was five. She did everything right. Tucked the tooth under her pillow, arranged herself carefully in bed, went to sleep with the kind of certainty kids have when magic is guaranteed. The next morning she reached under her pillow, felt nothing, and sat there trying to understand how the universe could betray her like this.

I felt like the worst mother alive.

My sister happened to be visiting with her girls that weekend, and together we did what adults do when buying time. We told Emmy the Tooth Fairy must have been very busy. Overwhelmed, really. She would definitely come tonight. Emmy listened, nodded, seemed to accept it.

That night, all of us tried to fix it.

Independently.

Without telling each other.

I put money under her pillow. Not a quarter…actual dollars. Her older sister snuck in and added her own contribution. My sister followed suit. And because I am who I am, I also decided a letter was necessary. Once you miss a visit from a mythical creature, the recovery plan should include documentation.

I typed it in a pink, scrolly, sparkly font. "Miss Emmy, I am so sorry I missed your house last night. There were a lot of kids on your street who lost teeth, and my wings were just too tired to go to one more house. I hope this makes up for it!"

At the time, I believed it would withstand reasonable doubt.

The next morning, Emmy woke up to thirty-five dollars and a formal apology from the Tooth Fairy herself! She was over the moon! Not suspicious. Not confused about the windfall or the convenient explanation. Just thrilled. The letter was proof, and proof was everything.

Years later, my sister and I were standing in the kitchen talking when the Tooth Fairy incident came up. I laughed about it. Casual. Dismissive. The way you do when a story has long expired.

Emmy heard everything.

She walked into the room, looked straight at me, and said, "You said there's no Tooth Fairy?"

Then, without waiting for my answer: "Oh yes, there is!"

She disappeared upstairs.

A minute later she came back down, clutching a piece of paper she had clearly been storing somewhere safe. She unfolded it with the kind of care people reserve for historical documents, then held it up like a lawyer presenting Exhibit A.

"Look!" she said. "See? She is real! I have proof!"

It was the letter.

Pink font. Tired wings. The whole apology.

I had completely forgotten I wrote it. I had no idea she kept it, no idea where it lived, no idea how many times she might have pulled it out when doubt crept in. Turns out the Tooth Fairy needed to be officially addressed.

I asked her recently if she still has it.

She does.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef