When I first moved into that compound, I could never have imagined how one small child would change my life forever. Among all the families that lived there, one stood out to me—not because of the parents, but because of their little girl. Her name was Tamara. She must have been barely two years old then, chubby cheeks, fair skin that glowed like morning sunshine, and eyes that carried a warmth too deep for her age.

From the first day, she attached herself to me. It was strange and beautiful at the same time. If she didn’t see me, she would cry until I came around. Her mother would laugh and complain, “Aunty Mira has taken my daughter from me,” and we would all burst into laughter. But deep down, we knew it was true. Tamara wanted me more than anyone else. She preferred to sleep in my arms, in my bed, under my roof. If I didn’t escort her to school, she simply refused to go. The bond was unshakable.

Soon, everyone in the compound and even on the street started calling her “my daughter.” Even her parents sometimes teased her, saying, “Go to your real mother,” pointing to me. And Tamara would happily obey. She taught me how to be a mother before I ever had my own child. I learned how to feed her, bathe her, put her to bed, and check her little body for fever. She never complained, never resisted—because to her, I was safety. I was home.

I loved her so fiercely that it startled me sometimes. I found myself craving a child of my own, just so I could feel this love multiplied. But Tamara already filled that space in my heart. She was mine in every way that mattered.

One Saturday afternoon, our lives changed forever. I had gone down the road to buy a few things, and Tamara was with me as usual. We played and laughed as we walked, her giggles ringing out like music. I lifted her into the air, spun her around, and she kissed my cheek. “I love you very much,” she whispered. I told her I loved her more. We danced and ran down the street, careless and happy.

Her father happened to drive past just then. He stopped and teased us, saying, “Madam with her pikin, see them misbehaving anyhow on the road. Carry your baby go house.” We laughed together, and Tamara waved at him, shouting, “Daddy, bye bye!”

We returned home not long after. An hour later, I got a call from a friend who wanted to drop something for me at the estate gate. He didn’t want to drive in, so I hurried out to meet him. I was wearing just a T-shirt and shorts, with my earpods tucked in. Music playing, hands in my pockets, I walked off without realizing that a pair of little eyes had spotted me from the window.

Tamara.

She saw me leave, and without telling anyone, she slipped on her slippers and ran after me. I didn’t hear her cries, didn’t hear her calling my name over the music. She stood at the gate, waiting, weeping, refusing to return inside even when her mother begged her. Twice her mother carried her in, and twice she escaped. Her tiny body stood defiant, her little hands swinging as she looked for me.

I spent over an hour at the gate with my friend. When I finally returned, I saw a crowd gathered outside. My heart raced. I thought there had been an accident. As I drew closer, I heard the words that shattered my soul:

“Tamara o!”

At first, I refused to believe it. “Which Tamara?” I asked, hoping desperately they meant another child. But then I saw her mother on the ground, wailing, clutching Tamara’s bloody body. My legs buckled. My spirit left me.

They told me what happened. A car reversing too fast had struck her where she stood by the gate. A hit-and-run. She died instantly.

I don’t remember much after that. I only remember holding her limp body in my arms, her sweet face smeared with blood, yet still carrying that faint smile I loved so much. I begged her to forgive me. I begged God to take me instead. I cried until my body gave up.

Her burial was a blur of pain and disbelief. I wasn’t myself, nor were her parents. The compound that had once been filled with laughter became a graveyard of memories. Everywhere I looked, I saw her: running toward me, smiling, shouting “Mama!” I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. At night, I dreamed of her, and in the day, her absence screamed louder than any noise.

Eventually, I had to move out. I couldn’t live surrounded by her ghost. Her parents and I kept in touch over the phone, but we were all shadows of our former selves. She had been more than a daughter to me, and her loss drained every ounce of joy from my heart.

It took me years to begin healing. For nights upon nights, I cried over her photos, scrolling through our memories on my phone, whispering apologies into the darkness. I blamed myself. I believed it was my fault—because if I hadn’t left that day, she would still be alive.

But one afternoon, in a dream, Tamara came to me. She wiped my tears and spoke with the clarity of an angel. “It was never your fault,” she told me. “If you had known, you would have carried me with you, like always. Don’t cry for me, Mama.”

I woke up with my heart pounding, tears streaming down my face. For the first time in years, I felt something like peace.

When I saw her parents again, four years later, they had two more children. But even they admitted: the love they gave to Tamara was different. She was their first light, their irreplaceable one. It took them years to try again, because the wound she left was too raw.

Tamara was the kind of child who made strangers fall in love. You didn’t need to be her biological parent to feel like she belonged to you. Her love was pure, her presence unforgettable. She had been my daughter, my teacher, my joy, and my heartbreak.

Even now, years later, I carry her inside me. Her laughter lives in my memory, her smile in my dreams. She taught me that love can break you, but it can also rebuild you. She taught me that motherhood is not only about blood, but about bond.

I am Mirach Amba. And though I lost my Tamara, the daughter of my heart, she will remain the best part of me—the best of my kind—forever.