October 21st.

Every year, this date carries both light and shadow for the Woodruff family.

It is the day they remember Rebecca — their “Always Baby.”

Nine years have passed since that tragic morning when the rhythm of their lives changed forever.

Rebecca was only a little girl, filled with laughter that could melt the hardest heart, a smile that seemed to have been borrowed from heaven itself.

She was her mother’s answered prayer, her father’s pride, her siblings’ sunshine.

But on October 21, 2011, an unimaginable accident shattered that joy.

Rebecca’s mother, backing out of the driveway, did not see her little girl behind the car.

In one terrible instant, the world stopped.

When she stepped out and saw Rebecca lying still on the driveway, the sound of her own scream echoed through the quiet morning.

She called 911 with trembling hands, begging for a miracle that would not come.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Rebecca was gone.

She was only a child — but she had already filled a lifetime’s worth of love into every heart that knew her.

They called her “Always Baby.”

It began as a sweet exchange between mother and daughter.

One day, when Rebecca proudly announced, “I’m getting big, Mommy,” her mother smiled through tears and said softly, “You’ll always be my baby.”

Rebecca giggled and said, “Then I’m Always Baby.”

And from that day forward, the name stayed.

It became her identity — a little girl’s promise to her mother that love never grows old.

Rebecca was the kind of child who turned ordinary days into something holy.

She woke up humming songs she made up on the spot.

She wrapped her tiny arms around everyone, whispering “I love you” like it was her favorite secret.

The house felt alive when she was in it — with laughter, with light, with the soft patter of her feet racing down the hall.

She had a hundred nicknames: “Little Girl,” “Fickle Pickle,” “Rebecca Cheeks,” “Moon Monkey.”

But “Always Baby” said it all.

It wasn’t just what they called her — it was who she was.

Her mother often said that Rebecca wasn’t just her child; she was an extension of her soul.

After years of longing and prayer, Rebecca had come into her life like a sunrise after a long night.

Every bedtime story, every crayon drawing, every giggle was a gift wrapped in grace.

And when she left, the silence that followed felt too vast to cross.

Yet even in her absence, love refused to die.

Her parents believed that Rebecca, now among angels, still watched over them.

Her mother said she sometimes felt her presence — a sudden warmth, a whisper of wind, a scent of strawberry shampoo in an empty room.

“She still takes care of me,” her mother would say. “She always did.”

Rebecca had that way — even as a toddler — of mothering the ones who were supposed to mother her.

She would press her tiny hand on her mom’s cheek and say, “Don’t cry, Mommy. God’s got us.”

And somehow, even now, those words still carry them through the hardest days.

Her father remembers her differently — through laughter, through mischief.

He remembers working from home while Rebecca turned his office into her playground.

She would climb into his lap, scattering papers, declaring, “No more work, Daddy — play with me!”

He could never resist.

Together they would build towers of blocks, draw letters, or play pretend until her laughter filled the room.

Every evening, when he came home, she’d rush out barefoot to meet him, arms lifted high, saying, “Hold you, Daddy, hold you!”

And of course, he would.

In those moments, he felt like the luckiest man alive.

Rebecca had a way of turning every small thing into love.

She’d give him “shopping lists” in her baby handwriting — cookies, juice, hugs.

And when he brought them home, she’d reward him with kisses and the proudest smile.

“She was my boss,” he would joke, “and I was happy to obey.”

Even now, he says he would give the world just to be “bossed around” by her one more time.

To feel her tiny arms around his neck.

To breathe in the scent of sunshine and childhood.

To hear her whisper, “Hold you, Daddy,” just once again.

Rebecca’s siblings carry her in their own quiet ways.

They talk about her like she’s still in the next room — because in many ways, she is.

They tell stories about how she would dance in her pajamas or steal cookies and then blame the dog.

They remember her singing nonsense songs, making everyone laugh so hard they forgot the world’s troubles.

Their relationships, her father once said, were like verses in a song — different rhythms, different tones, but together, perfect harmony.

The poets might have written of beauty and loss, but none of them ever met Rebecca.

Because her love — the kind that binds a family through heartbreak — is the kind that can’t be written, only felt.

They don’t understand why she had to go.

No one ever does.

But they hold on to the faith that her light, the same light that brightened their days, now shines in heaven.

They believe she’s busy there — laughing, singing, maybe giving the angels a few “shopping lists” of her own.

Maybe she asked God to check on Mommy.

To comfort Daddy.

To make sure her sibbies have happy dreams.

Because that’s who she was — Always Baby, always love.

Sometimes, when the sky blushes pink at dusk, her mother whispers, “That’s her.”

Sometimes, when laughter fills the kitchen unexpectedly, her father smiles and says, “She’s here.”

Grief, they’ve learned, never really leaves.

But neither does love.

And so, year after year, on October 21st, they gather — quietly, tenderly.

They light a candle.

They look through photos: her bright eyes, her dimpled cheeks, the way she leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.

They speak her name aloud — Rebecca.

Always Baby.

And in that soft flicker of light, she feels near again.

The candle glows, the air feels warmer, and for a moment, it’s as if heaven has bent down to listen.

She was their joy.

She still is.

Because some love stories never end — they simply change address.

Rebecca’s story lives on, written in every heartbeat of those who loved her.

In her mother’s prayers.

In her father’s quiet strength.

In her siblings’ laughter.

And in the belief that one day, beyond tears and time, they will see her again — running into their arms, whispering, “Hold you, Daddy, hold you.”

Until then, she remains their Always Baby.

Always loved.

Always home.