Behind the Smiles (A Summer of Highs and Lows)
f you scroll through our summer photos, you’ll see sunlit smiles. Laughter. Hugs by the lake. Camping adventures. Goofy moments in the city. And all of that is real—beautiful, joy-filled moments worth remembering. But like most families, our smiles have shadows. There are parts of the story that don’t show up on social media.
This summer, we made a decision that shaped the rest of our travel: to prioritize time with my daughters’ older sister. She lives in a residential care facility and is non-verbal, autistic, and unable to care for herself. They don’t get to see her often—once or twice a year if we’re all lucky, thanks to the hard work of my mom who made it happen for the three girls. Adoption, differing paternities, communication challenges, and distance have gotten in the way of traditional sibling bonds.
I knew it would be hard, but it was more difficult than I imagined. It was my first time seeing her in a decade due to the logistics of a complicated situation.
I worried she wouldn’t recognize us, but she smiled so deeply when she saw us. My heart melted.
They shyly said their hellos. Sat on the couch and watched as I brushed her hair like I did when she was little. The girls tried to engage, their voices lifting in encouragement. She lives in a place that feels far from warm or welcoming, and they wanted to cheer her in an impossibly difficult situation. But after a while, it became too much for them—the emotion, the quiet weight of the moment—and they stepped outside.
From the window, I saw her watching them. There was a flicker in her expression, something I could only name as longing. When we prepared to leave, she grabbed her bag and walked toward the front door, ready to come with us. My heart ached knowing she could not.
We said our goodbyes, the kind that leave you feeling both grateful and hollow. I left in tears I tried to hide. The girls carried the heaviness with them, knowing their time together was brief and already over. They won’t share clothes or bedrooms with her as they grow. They won’t swap secrets after lights-out. Their bond exists in short visits and stolen moments, shaped by circumstances beyond any of our control.
Choosing to see her meant we didn’t have as much time with others this year. It meant fewer visits with other family. It meant hard conversations and harder goodbyes. It wasn’t “fun.” It was emotional and exhausting, and it cracked something open in all of us.
That’s why our short trip to Chicago afterward felt like a deep breath. It was a recovery—a chance to wrap the sadness in something lighter. And then, just as quickly as we’d found our joy again, we were met with more grief. News of a dear family friend’s sudden passing on the train ride home reminded me: joy and pain are always holding hands.
What I know now is this—every adventure carries more than one truth. Ours came with tearful visits, anxious hearts, and moments we won’t share publicly because they belong to us. But they also came with laughter, connection, and gratitude so big it can’t fit into a single frame.
Our smiles are real. But they were built on the back of tears. And maybe that’s what makes them so radiant—because behind every one is a story of showing up, loving through the hard, and holding onto each other through it all. People say, “you’re so lucky,” and we are. But we’ve also been doing the hard work of living fully this summer—and that isn’t always something to smile about.
