She was 5 years old, 35 inches tall, and 30 pounds, when she asked me, “Mommy, how did the world get like this?” She was sitting on a windowsill, looking down at the city of Chicago from the sixth floor of a hotel room. Her eyes darted as cars flew down the streets and people rode past on bikes; I watched her eyes flood with curiosity as she anticipated my answer.  At first, I was unsure how to respond. I knew how the world was created, and how humans have progressed society over time, but how do I explain this to a child? Where do I start? Do I begin with the Big Bang? The evolution of humans? How vague or detailed should I be? Being a young, inexperienced mother, I was overthinking this.

“Well sweetie, over time, humans have used technology to make the world better and easier for us to live in. We’ve built roads and buildings and homes and eventually it became like this.” She nodded in comprehension. It wasn’t the best answer. But for a five year old, it was sufficient.
* * * * *
She was 7 years old, 3 feet and 5 inches tall, and 41 pounds, when she asked me, “Is it okay to be scared sometimes?” after crawling into my arms and burrowing her face into my neck. The night before, she’d seen a scary movie trailer.
“Of course it’s okay to be scared, honey. We all get scared sometimes, but it’s important not to let our fears get in the way of our lives. We should always do the right thing, even if it’s scary. Right?”
“Right Mommy.” she said confidently.
* * * * *
She was 10 years old, 4 feet and 3 inches tall, and 64 pounds, when she asked me, “Why do people have to die?” Her eyes were filled with tears. I had just broken the news  that her grandfather wouldn’t be with us much longer. It was hard enough for me to lose my father, but seeing her heartbroken face was crushing. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t give her the real answer, which was that we don’t have the technology to live forever, and if we were immortal, eventually we’d get bored, and depressed, and want to move on to something better than this life. Explaining that would be too much for a 10 year old. She needed something uplifting.
“The world would get too crowded if we all lived forever.” I told her, hoping to add some levity. “You’re grandfather’s going to a better, happier place — somewhere we’ll see him again...eventually.” I hoped this was comforting. I took her in and hugged her until she wouldn’t let me anymore.
* * * * *
She was 13 years old, 4 feet and7 inches tall, and 84 pounds, when she asked me, “What is the meaning of life?” I knew this question would come eventually. What child doesn’t ask this question at some point in their life? The easiest answer is love; that’s the typical answer most people would tell you. But that’s too easy. There’s more to life than just love. I’d thought about this question a lot before, and struggled to come up with a definite answer.
“What do you think the meaning of life is?” I asked her. I figured it would be better for her to choose what she wanted it to mean. Everyone has their own interpretation of what our purpose is.
“Well...” she paused, “today in school we learned about how small we are. How we’re only a small speck in a huge universe, in an even bigger cosmos. What’s the point of anything when we’re so small?”
Her wise insight impressed me. She was growing up, and eventually she’d have the answers to her own questions. She wouldn’t need me anymore.
“We may be small, but we make a difference for each other. By helping one another, we help better humanity; we make each other happy, and inspire each other to do better. We gain purpose by how we influence each other. The meaning of life is what you make it—it’s how you see the world.”
She thought about that for a long time until she finally said,  “Okay.”
* * * * *
She was 15 years old, 5 feet tall, and had become a typical teenager when she asked me, “Why do we consider some things right and some things wrong? How do we know for sure if it’s right or wrong?” These questions were delivered with a hint of sassiness I did not appreciate. Lately, I had been reminding her to “remember to do the right thing” before she left the house. For some reason, she felt the need to question me that night.
“What’s right and wrong often depends on how it affects other people. We can never know for sure because it’s all relative; rights and wrongs aren’t concrete facts. Typically you know if something is wrong if it impacts other people in a bad way.” This seemed like a good answer to me. I hoped she’d at least listen to a little bit of what I told her.
“Whatever you say, Mom,” she said as she sashayed out the door.
* * * * *
She was 18 years old, 5 feet and 3 inches tall, and practically an adult, when she asked me, “Mom, what does it mean to be in love?” Ever since she was little, she’d always been a hopeless romantic who dreamt of her wedding day. I never wanted her to find out the realities of what relationships are really like; being in love isn’t always the dreamy fairytale adolescents assume it is.
“Being in love is when you can’t imagine a life without that person. You love every part of them, including their flaws, and you’d do anything to stay with them. You don’t think you’ll ever stop loving them, no matter what happens.”
She pondered that for a while. It seemed clear to me that she thought she was in love.
“Do you think you’re in love?” I asked, trying not to sound condescending.
“I suppose not...” she said slowly. I could tell by her eyes that she was though; she just couldn’t admit it. As much as I didn’t want her to be, she was.
* * * * *
Now she’s 27, and engaged to be married in April to the boy she fell in love with in high school. She’s working as a history teacher, and travels the world at least twice a year. I’m glad she’s happy. I miss the days when she’d crawl into my lap and ask me questions I wasn’t prepared for. I can still remember that day by the windowsill as if it were yesterday. She hasn’t asked me a good question for a while now, but I know sooner or later, she’ll come to me with another question I’ll have to reflect on.