Love, like language, is never lost—it is only passed on.

In 1990 my husband and I brought Jayda Paige Novak into our lives. She was a day old when we brought her home from the hospital: a full head of thick, dark hair (she still does), seven pounds, and perfectly healthy. Her father openly wept when she was born.

Fast forward thirty-five years, and I am so grateful. I can’t imagine loving anyone more than this creature. She is so wise, and so kind, and such a force in my life.

Did we always bond? The short answer is yes and no. Her father and I eventually divorced, and although we remained good friends and shared custody, I always felt like I was vying for her love. She was closer to him, and if that didn’t shatter my heart, nothing would.

Then, university took her 1,000 miles away, and before I realized what had happened, the temporary four-year stint to earn her degree turned into a permanent move—months after graduating she was offered her dream job.

I was silently devastated, but I outwardly praised her. How could I not feel and do both? My heart was eerily void, but we continued our relationship from a distance.

And as we both matured our bond blossomed.

Now, we travel for visits, we talk often, we have inside jokes that create laughter, and we share wisdom that both of us have gleaned. And when my Mom, her ‘Mimi’ got ill, Jayda was my compassionate go-to when I needed a shoulder.

Yet, this afternoon reminded me of something so damn important and critical in life and family relationships.

Jayda and I were talking on the phone, sharing secrets and recipes, and then the conversation moved to our ancestors. Four generations of our family are writers. My grandmother was an author of fiction and had three books published. (She began writing them under a kerosene lamp on the farm after the chores were done and her five children were sleeping). My Mom’s sister, my aunt, was an investigative journalist and travelled the world for stories. My Mom was writing a non-fiction to help couples better communicate—until she became ill. I’ve written and self-published two fictional novels on later in life romance and generational stories. And Jayda is working on two sci-fi manuscripts and wrote and recently published a sci-fi podcast.

“It’s in our blood,” I murmured to my daughter this afternoon. “It’s an undeniable and unstoppable desire to create with words.”

Four generations of women, each finding her way to the page and each carrying the same quiet fire.

I once feared losing my daughter. Instead, I found her. In the stories she tells, the ones she is still becoming, and the wisdom we share.

And I realized the truth: with family, love, like language, is never lost—it is only passed on.