“Mama, can you spray the perfume?”
The words came so softly each morning, almost fragile, as if spoken too loudly they might break her courage. Her little hands tugged gently at my sleeve, her eyes shimmering with tears she tried so hard to hide. And every day, without fail, I reached for the bottle—her favorite perfume of mine.
It became our ritual. Our anchor.
To her, school was not just a building. It was a mountain to climb, a storm to weather, a battlefield where her invisible enemy—anxiety—waited at the door. At only a few years old, she carried a weight on her chest far too heavy for such a small body. Every morning as she buttoned her shirt or tied her shoes, I could see it: the struggle pressing down, the fear that grew larger as the minutes ticked toward the school bell.
But then came the perfume.
One gentle spray on her wrist, one mist on a scarf she could bury her face into when the world grew too loud. I would spray it once more on myself, reminding her, “Whenever you smell it, remember—I’m thinking of you. We’re together, even when apart.”
She would nod, clutching the scarf, and for a moment her breathing eased. For a moment, she had courage.
And so began the long walk to school. Her big sister would take her hand, guiding her toward a doorway painted with bright posters and charts that only deepened her dread. The threshold of that classroom was her line of battle. With each step, she fought the fear of being away from me, the fear of not having her twin by her side, the fear of being swallowed by hours that stretched endlessly.
As her small foot crossed the door each morning, my mama heart broke anew. Behind my smile, I carried her pain with me. I felt the echo of her fear long after she disappeared into the room, long after the door shut.
And yet, day after day, she carried my perfume with her like a shield.
Years passed. Scarves were soaked in that fragrance. Dozens of bottles came and went. Mornings blurred into seasons of worry and whispered reassurances. Through it all, she endured.
Now, when I look at her, I no longer see a trembling little girl. I see a young woman. Strong. Grounded. A soul who has walked through shadows and come out carrying light. The same child who once buried her face in a cotton scarf now steadies the hearts of others, speaking calm into their storms.
And still, sometimes, when the breeze shifts, I catch a trace of that perfume. Just a faint note drifting through the air—and instantly I am back in those mornings. Her small voice. Her trembling hands. Her courage to face what felt impossible.
Tears prick my eyes, but not of sorrow. They are tears of awe, of gratitude, of wonder at the girl who became a woman right before me.
That perfume was more than scent. It was connection. It was love pressed into air, love she carried with her into the world, love that told her she was never alone.
And as she stands before me now—resilient, steady, beautiful—I know she carries it still. Not on her scarf. Not on her wrist. But in her heart.
She will always carry a little piece of home with her. And always, always, a little bit of mama’s perfume.
