The moment my granddaughter was placed into my arms, missing pieces began shifting into long-vacant holes. I’d never given the empty spaces much thought. Her father’s first sixteen months were a loss that had grown dusty over the years busy raising him alongside his sibling. It wasn’t until she arrived that I felt the full grief of all that happened before Joshua became one of us.

Our second son entered into foster care only days after his birth, initially raised by a caring couple until we found our way to him. The first time I laid eyes on his chubby toddler self, he stood at the screen door of the only home he’d know. Dark eyelashes framed nearly black eyes, and precious curls sprouted straight from above and behind his ears. From the first toothy grin, I was in love.

Now years later, Joshua is a grown man with a wife perfectly designed for him. When they announced their pregnancy, we were overjoyed. My husband and I talked about what it would be like to be grandparents for the first time, what we would be called, and how we could help without interfering. Visions of toddler Joshua asleep in his crib, his dark eyelashes forming crescents visible in the moonlight filled my thoughts. I prayed that if nothing else, the baby would have those lashes.

Finally, she was here. It may sound silly, but I asked them not to text me any pictures. I wanted the first time I saw my granddaughter to be face-to-face. Looking back, I think this was the beginning of many reclaimed moments to come. The first image I’d seen of Joshua was in a grainy black and white photocopy, and though I wouldn’t change a thing, I found I needed to see her in person. My heart craved the connection without distance between us.

And when I saw her, the wait was worth every agonizing hour.

The sweet bundle in my arms was a delicate version of her father. Dark wisps of hair lay across her tiny head. Her olive skin was the perfect tone to accentuate her nearly black eyes. And when she slept, tiny crescents formed along her closed eyelids.

In the ten months that have followed, I’ve watched as her hair began to curl, the little waves making their way out from behind and above her perfect ears. She laughs easily like her father and has a peace about her that comes straight from her mother.

When she falls asleep on my chest, my heart connects to the baby I missed and the hours I wasn’t there to rock him as he slept. As she learned to crawl, I cheered her on, watching her come into the very first pieces of her independence. Every small moment provides another missing piece, and my heart overflows with the love I had waiting for a grandchild alongside the love I didn’t have the opportunity to give her father in those early days.

She was born into peace, not fear or loss or trauma. My sweet granddaughter is the completion of the picture that began the day we met her father.

Would you like more content from me? Check out my posts on Medium or subscribe to my newsletter.