It was a quiet morning stroll through Dordrecht when we wandered into the Grote Kerk, which translates, rather humbly, as the Big Church. Its full name is De Grote of Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk, a majestic Gothic structure, not unlike the Black Church in Brașov, and about the same age too. Inside, the atmosphere was serene, almost sacred, wrapping around us like a warm hush.

We found a bench and sat down, the kind of sit-down where you’re not really tired, but your thoughts are. Sitting beside me was Miss J., unusually still and solemn. Yes, my whirlwind of a daughter—eternally full of questions—was suddenly peaceful. I looked at her sideways, amused and slightly suspicious of the calm. She glanced up at me with her curious, always-seeking eyes and whispered:

“Mommy, what are those people doing with their eyes closed and hands like this?” She demonstrated, pressing her palms together with earnest little fingers.

I smiled and whispered back, “Some people believe churches are the house of God. And when they sit on these benches with their eyes closed and hands together, they pray. They speak to God about their wishes, the ones they carry deep in their hearts. They believe God listens—and maybe, will help make them come true.” I added, “If you have wishes too, you can do the same. Who knows? Maybe yours will come true as well.”

She went very quiet and then, in an almost unnerving tone of seriousness, replied: “I think God must be very busy. All day long, He has to take care of everyone’s complicated wishes.”

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh out loud, and gave her a smile instead. Then, to my complete surprise, she closed her little eyes, brought her palms together again, and began to speak her wishes out loud. I had assumed she would think them silently. But not Miss J. She has never been one for being silent about anything.

“Dear God,” she began with an unshakable sincerity, “if your job really is to make wishes come true, then please make tonight go really fast so I can finally get to Disneyland. And when I’m there, please make Mommy buy me all the toys I want and not say it’s too much. Also, please make Isabel from school stop being so mean to me. And maybe school can start again soon?”

I sat there, frozen—half-gasping, half-grinning—as she continued, voice small but mighty in that vast old church.

“I’d really like the Dora game for my DS. And maybe you could send me a little sister. But if you don’t have sisters left, a baby brother would be okay too. Oh! And can we stay at Grandma’s house for a really long time in the summer?”

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just listened, transfixed. Then came a twist I didn’t expect—she started to cry.

I asked softly, “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

Without a word, she flung herself at me, tears pouring down her cheeks, and pressed her wet little nose into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, gently rocking, and asked again: “What’s wrong, love?”

Through hiccups and sobs, she whispered: “Because I wish you’d never grow old. If you grow old, you’ll die… and I don’t want you to die.”

I was speechless. I opened my mouth to respond, maybe explain something about life, about death, about the inevitable—only to find my own tears threatening to fall. I closed my mouth instead. I wasn’t ready. My voice would tremble. And I might cry harder than her. So I held her tighter, kissed her tear-streaked cheeks, and breathed her in. We stood and quietly continued our visit.

But in that moment, I understood something.

I am afraid of death, but not for myself. I am afraid for her. I am terrified of not being here for her. Not being there to hold her when life gets too heavy. Not being there to whisper, “It’ll be okay” when the world feels wrong. That fear was born the day she was born.

She is my reason to live. My daily reason to stand up, push through, and keep going, no matter how tired or broken I might feel. Because when your child wishes you’d never die, you know with absolute certainty: your presence in their life is everything.