The Halloween Day started and I found myself looking at my daughter, her face painted with streaks of black and red, her eyes shining under the shadow of a huge red hat. She was Jessie from Toy Story, though not exactly the cheerful cowgirl most people know. Somewhere between a western heroine and a mischievous ghost, she stood in the doorway, waiting for the rain to stop. The storm outside was merciless, loud, and unfair. We had planned this day for weeks, bought the costume, rehearsed the smiles for the photos, even dreamed of a small dinner at the mall where she could walk proudly in her disguise. Instead, thunder replaced music, and puddles took over the streets. She looked at me as if I could command the weather itself. There is no manual for that kind of gaze. You just improvise.
Before Halloween, the week had been unbearable. The kind of heat that feels like it is pressing on your lungs. Thirty degrees or more, the air too heavy to move in. We had joked about melting before we even got to the candy. Then the rain came, a sudden, angry shift in mood, like the sky itself was mocking our plans. I watched her excitement fade, her costume still bright but her spirit dimming. So I made a promise right there, in the middle of that small heartbreak, that tomorrow would be our Halloween, even if it meant celebrating when everyone else had already moved on. Sometimes motherhood is nothing more than that quiet defiance against disappointment.
Driving on the bus the next morning, she sat beside me with her new costume, this time a mime, her face pale and eyes outlined in deep black. Outside, the city was still soaked, but she didn’t care. She smiled at strangers who smiled back, maybe at her costume, maybe at her joy. I wrote some notes on my phone while she looked out the window, her small hands clutching her hat. The bus was slow, crowded, humid, but for us, it was an adventure finally happening. I realized how often the best moments come from broken plans. You can plan for a perfect Halloween, but not for the feeling of sitting next to your child while she hums softly and waits for her turn to shine.
Motherhood is full of small contradictions. You want to teach resilience, but your heart breaks when they face disappointment. You want them to dream, but not too high that they get hurt on the fall. And yet, the only real choice is to let them live fully, to taste joy and frustration, sun and rain. Watching her that day reminded me that our children measure happiness in presence, not perfection. It is not about the flawless event but about showing up, staying, keeping the promise even when it rains. That is the kind of memory that stays long after the candy is gone, long after the makeup fades.
Yesterday and today blended into one long Halloween. Jessie and the mime, laughter and wet shoes, thunder and bus rides. I saw her dancing between both worlds, innocence and imagination, and I felt a strange peace. There are few moments when motherhood feels still, like a pause in time, and this was one of them. Maybe the lesson isn’t about keeping the tradition alive, but about learning how to bend it without breaking the spirit behind it. She will not remember the rain, or the ruined plans, but she will remember that we celebrated anyway. And that, I think, is what I want to leave with her: the understanding that joy can be delayed, but never denied.
