Mary, Charlie and Frances the Firefly

Before Frances the Firefly fluttered onto the page in her pink tutu, before the jars and the nets and the lesson about letting go...
There was a woman named Mary. A beautiful, brave, kind woman who never backed down from life. And there was a little old man named Charlie. What follows is the story of their unlikely friendship, and the kind of love that brought a whole nursing home back to life.

My mother had just lost her leg.
She was in a nursing home for rehab, healing not just her body, but the parts of herself the world had tried to take…freedom, dignity, joy. That would’ve been more than enough for anyone to carry. But my mother was not anyone.

She was a spark in motion.
Even in a wheelchair, she found a way to roll the halls like she owned them. And where there was a person in pain, she showed up. She had a radar for it, for loneliness, for grief, for the quiet rooms where laughter had gone missing.

That’s where she found Charlie.

Charlie was 88. He had been married his whole life, and when he lost his wife, he gave up completely. Without her, there was nothing left for him, or so he believed. He was tiny, frail, no teeth, the kind of man who looked like he belonged in overalls on a porch, chewing straw. A wiry old farmer, only hollowed out. He stayed in his room. Quiet. Faded. A man-shaped sigh.

And my mother? Well, she was officially on a mission. Every single day she wheeled herself down the hall and parked just outside Charlie’s door like it was her job. Like it was a front porch. And she started singing.

Not because she expected him to sing back. Just because no one else was.

Eventually, he started listening.
Then chuckling.
Then singing along.

And just like that, two unlikely best friends took over the whole damn nursing home.
The other residents didn’t know what hit them.
It was all laughter and rebellion and kindness with those two. My mother and Charlie. The hilltop royalty.

She even painted them once, her and Charlie, each in a wheelchair, up on a hilltop at dusk, arms reaching toward the stars, nets in hand, catching fireflies. That watercolor lives etched on my heart like a tattoo.

And that singular picture, painted by my mother nearly 30 years ago, was the spark. That’s when the idea for Frances the Firefly was born...
up on the hilltop the fireflies go, to dance in the fireflies' fireworks show...

A story born from kindness.
From generosity so contagious it gave a grieving man the courage to love again, even at 88, even when he had already given up.

Frances is really about that.
About what it means to love anyway.
To offer your light when you feel dim.
To open your heart when it feels safer to stay closed.

About what happens when you choose to glow anyway, even when the world (or your own heart) tells you to give up.
About how sometimes, the fireflies come back, just to remind you the light was always yours.

Even though Frances the Firefly is a children’s book,
if you know where to look, in the soft corners, the glowing jars, the quiet bravery ,
you’ll see it’s really about my mom.

And Charlie.

And how love can still surprise you…
even at the end of the hallway.
Even at the end of the story.

And now, all these years later, a little girl named Frances carries her name. She never met my mother, but somehow, in her joy, her boldness, her light, she carries her spirit. And maybe that’s the truest thing of all: love like that never really fades. It just finds new ways to glow.