What’s something most people don’t understand?

Most people don’t understand that love never dies. Nor do kept promises.

We weren’t just mother and daughter-in-law, we were colleagues first. We met through teaching, formed a friendship in the trenches of education, and that friendship only deepened as our lives became more entwined. Over time, she became more than family. She became someone I trusted, laughed with, and learned from.

In the 18 years I knew her, I never once heard her complain of pain. Not even when she had every right to. Even with her COPD, she never made a fuss, never rushed to the ER. She was strong, stubborn, and self sufficient. I remember one time I insisted she let me take her to the hospital when her cough just didn’t sit right with me. She ended up staying for three days. For years, she’d bring it up, thanking me again and again for taking her that day.

That’s why I believe she came to me at the end, because she knew I’d never let her suffer. And I didn’t. I kept my promise.

In the days leading up to her death, she hadn’t been feeling well. She was misdiagnosed with constipation and prescribed a strong bowel prep, something typically used for colonoscopy patients. It did what it was supposed to, but something wasn’t right.

When she arrived at our home to see us and the kids, I knew instantly something was off. Her skin was pale, the whites of her eyes had turned yellow, and her balance was unsteady. But what struck me most was how she spoke, more emotionally than usual, sharing regrets, personal wounds, even old betrayals. It was as if she was clearing space.

She was supposed to spend the weekend with us, but the pain in her lower abdomen became too much. I led her to the guest room, helped her get comfortable, and she looked at me and softly said, “Thank you.” I think we both knew, on some level, that this was different.

An hour later, I went to check on her, thinking I’d find her napping. But she wasn’t sleeping. She was pale, sweating, and clearly in pain. I knelt beside her and asked, “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” She could only moan. I gently asked, “Do you need me to call 911?” She paused, then nodded.

I ran to my husband. At first, he thought I might be overreacting, but when he saw her and asked for himself, she gave the same nod. He called.

At the hospital, the diagnosis came quickly and cruelly: her colon had burst. She was in septic shock. Surgery was immediate, but there were no guarantees.

She died three days later.

It was sudden. It was brutal. But she didn’t die in pain or alone. She died with dignity. And I believe with my whole heart she came to our house because she trusted me to do what was right, to speak up when she couldn’t, to make the call, to hold her hand through the worst. I had done it before, and this time, I kept my promise again.

For a while, I waited for a sign. I needed to know she was okay. That she had crossed over in peace.

That week, a red cardinal landed on the windowsill and wouldn’t leave. The scent of her perfume filled the room while I was folding laundry. My daughter would laugh in her sleep, and I’d wonder if Nana had whispered something funny in her ear.

Little things. Powerful things.

She loved ladybugs.

That summer, I was nervous about my son’s first day of camp. My stomach churned with worry as we searched for his group. until we found his cabana. A small sign hung above it, sweet and simple: The Ladybugs. I smiled through tears. I just knew it was Nana.

Later that fall, I stepped outside beneath my favorite tree, craving a moment of peace. There, nestled beneath a soft fern leaf, was a tiny ladybug. Quiet, gentle, unmistakable. Nana was still with us.

During one of the hardest times in our lives, when fear sat like a weight in our chests and we didn’t know how we’d make it, she came to me, between waking and sleep. She glowed with vibrant health, dressed in her favorite shade of peach, and looked like the most beautiful painting I’d ever seen.

She didn’t say much. Just one word.

“Soon.”

And she was right.

Two months later, my husband received a job offer from a company that would change everything for us. We had been held. We had been guided. And even now, when I see a ladybug, I smile.

Nana never left.

She’s still here.

She trusted me in life and I feel her in death. Still showing up. Still letting me know I did right by her.

Love doesn’t die. It just changes form.