Both my older sister and I carried the names of our grandmothers—Rebecca and Kathryn—creating a living thread that stretched back through generations of women. The tradition stopped when the name pool ran dry, but the feeling of belonging to a lineage of mothers, daughters, and sisters never faded.
In, my sister Rebecca, known to us as Becky, succumbed to an aggressive form of cervical cancer after a three-year battle. Her illness split my existence into two distinct eras: the carefree years before her diagnosis and the muted, reflective days that followed her passing. Those three years feel like an intermission in a horror film—clouded by hospital rooms, frail silhouettes, and an ever-diminishing hope.
The shadow of a sister’s illness
Watching Becky deteriorate taught me the raw texture of grief. It is a silent companion that refuses to leave, carving a permanent niche in daily life. I learned that grief is not a finite event; it is a persistent presence that reshapes how we perceive joy, routine, and even the future. The memory of a skeletal figure on a hospital bed still cuts sharply when I let it linger, reminding me that loss can coexist with love.
In the months after her death, I felt reborn in a paradoxical way. The void she left made room for something new—a life that would arrive just a year later, on a date that almost mirrored her own. My water broke on the night of May 13, 2019, a day before the anniversary of Becky’s passing, and the world outside the ambulance was lit by Mother’s Day candles. As the darkness closed in, I whispered a desperate prayer to my sister, begging the universe not to repeat the same date.
Birth on the edge of memory
The delivery was swift, merciful, and oddly poetic. Holding my newborn daughter for the first time, I felt two opposing currents—joy for the new life and sorrow for the sister I could never have again. That duality has become the heartbeat of my motherhood ever since.
Our family soon grew with the addition of a son. Nights turned into quiet rituals: my husband and I would each take turns soothing the infants, laying them gently in cribs, and listening for the soft, rhythmic sighs that signaled true sleep. Those moments, half-lit and hushed, often birthed a whisper of a story I began to write in my head—a children’s tale that would honor both love and loss without naming Becky directly.
The narrative found its anchor in the name Rebecca, a moniker that resurfaced centuries earlier in the form of Rebecca Lombard Smith, my great-great-great-great-grandmother. She endured the disappearance of her husband, Captain David Smith, who vanished on the ice of Port Hood Island in March 1789. While many histories spotlight the captain’s tragedy, it is Rebecca’s perseverance—raising six sons alone on a deserted island—that resonated with me.
Ancestral strength across the sea
Living in the village of Port Hood after Becky’s death, I could see the desolate island from my window, especially stark in winter. The sight reminded me of Rebecca’s isolation and her determination to survive. I began walking with my baby snug in a carrier and my dog trotting beside us, covering the distance to the Old Protestant Graveyard where Rebecca’s stone rests.
The gravestone reads:
Here lies the remains of Rebecca Smith… died on the 30th November A.D. 1821 in the 76th year of her age. This stone was erected to her memory by her sons Lewis, Parker, David. The inscription struck me as a testament to a mother whose life outlasted her husband’s, whose children honored her with their own names etched beside hers. It felt like a silent affirmation that family legacy can survive even the harshest storms.
Walking back home, the baby’s gentle breathing became a metronome, syncing my steps with a rhythm that linked past and present. The echo of my ancestor’s endurance gave me permission to let grief sit beside joy, not to dominate it. In that space, I found a quiet resolve: to live with loss, to cherish the living, and to carry forward the strength of women who came before me.
Later, the story found a public outlet when my friend Kate Beaton released a picture book titled Rebecca. Though the book tackles themes of loss and features adult protagonists—a rarity in children’s literature—it emphasizes that grief is a part of life that can be narrated with honesty and hope. The project reinforced my belief that sharing personal narratives can transform private sorrow into collective understanding.
