A Taste of Love
When my youngest daughter first came to us through foster care, she was just five years old — tiny, with wide eyes that seemed too watchful for her age. Her older sister was nine, protective, always standing slightly in front as if to shield her from the world. They arrived with few belongings, guarded hearts, and histories we would only come to understand in painful fragments.
As the leaves began to turn that first autumn together, I found myself excited to share the simple joys of the season: pumpkin carving, silly costumes, twinkling porch lights, the thrill of ringing a stranger’s doorbell and hearing them say, “Happy Halloween!”
But every time I brought up Halloween, both girls would freeze. Their little bodies stiffened, eyes darting away, as if even the mention of candy stirred something dark and frightening.
Eventually, one quiet afternoon, I gathered them close on the couch and asked if they had ever gone trick-or-treating before. The answer came in halting whispers.
They took turns speaking, each sister picking up where the other left off — telling me how, in their old home, they had indeed dressed up and collected candy. But when they returned, the adult in charge had taken it all away. Right in front of them, he ate their candy slowly, watching their faces, delighting in their tears. And when they cried, he handed them the empty brown paper wrappers of chocolate peanut butter cups. Eat them, he said, forcing them to chew the tasteless scraps as a cruel reminder of what they were missing.
My stomach twisted. How could such simple childhood magic have become a memory soaked in fear and humiliation for these little girls?
So when our first Halloween together arrived in 2014, I knew I had to go gently. I helped them into their princess and witch costumes, fussing over glittery tiaras and striped tights. They looked beautiful — but their eyes kept darting to their bags, counting every treat as it dropped inside.
When we got home, I spread a soft blanket on the living room floor. I handed them each a marker and plastic bag. We sat cross-legged together as they carefully counted out their candy, writing the totals in large letters on their bags. After every piece they ate, we counted again.
And we did it the next night. And the next. For weeks after Halloween, they would come to me before bed, clutching their candy bags.
“Mom, can we count again? Just to make sure?”
So we did. Lollipop by lollipop, we rebuilt their trust. Not just trust that their candy would be safe — but trust that joy itself could be safe.
Years passed. The girls settled into our home not just as foster children, but as daughters — adopted, loved beyond measure. Yet every October, old ghosts stirred. I would catch them counting without realizing, still double-checking even as teenagers.
Then last night, as I scrubbed dishes after dinner, I heard rustling behind me. My youngest — now with sturdy legs, bright eyes, her hair in a playful braid — emerged from the pantry. In her hands was a little bag of candy from a Halloween festival she’d recently attended. It was wrapped carefully in paper.
“Mom,” she said shyly, pushing it toward me, “I want you to have this.”
Puzzled, I opened it. Inside, written in her careful third-grade handwriting from an old notepad, were the words:
“Mom, I want to give you my sweets so you can taste how much I love you.”
Take a moment and let that settle in.
This was the same child who once had to eat empty candy wrappers while someone else relished what should have been hers. Now she stood in front of me, freely choosing to share her candy — not from fear, but from love.
She picked pieces she thought I’d like, packaged them up just for me. It was more than sugar and chocolate. It was trust. It was safety. It was her saying, “This is mine, and I’m giving it to you because now I know love isn’t something that gets stolen. It’s something we give.”
💫 Sometimes healing doesn’t come in sweeping moments. Sometimes it comes one piece of candy at a time, one quiet evening at a kitchen counter, one gentle chance to rewrite an old, painful story.
And sometimes, the sweetest taste of all is knowing that love — real, unwavering love — can turn even the bitterest memories into something beautifully new.
