Motherhood, Single Fatherhood, and the Bond Between Grandmother, Father, and Daughter—
I don’t really know how to begin this post.
No opening paragraph I choose could ever be strong enough to introduce or describe the volume of emotion and gratitude that will follow. So perhaps it’s best to start at the beginning and see where things lead.
There is a very clear reason why my beloved daughter is named after my mother—her grandmother—Sarah.
For many long years, my dear mother held the title of the most important person in my life.
As I’ve shared in previous posts, most of my life I was lonely. Disconnected from society. Comfortable only in my own company—except for one person.
My mother.
The Woman Who Truly Saw Me
She understood me better than anyone else in the world. She knew what I was going through just by looking into my eyes.
She carried the pain of most of my failures—and those I didn’t know how to tell her about, I carried alone; and she celebrated with me more than anyone else over the few successes I managed to scrape together.
Because of her deep love for me, she fulfilled her role as a mother with unwavering devotion. She never stopped urging me to seek help during difficult periods, encouraged me to connect with people my age so I wouldn’t be alone, and at every opportunity tried to remind me that love exists in this world.
My mother always saw the beauty within me—when no one else, especially myself, could see it.
The Decision to Become a Father
When I decided to take the bravest step of my empty life, she jumped for joy. She thanked God for the expected granddaughter and for the fact that her firstborn son would finally not grow old and die—like a dog—alone.
The surrogacy process was long and exhausting. There were moments when I came very close to breaking. More than once I told her, “That’s it. I’m not going on.”
And I knew exactly what she would do, because that’s what a good mother does: comfort, encourage, insist that I keep going despite the difficulties, and remind me that she is with me—every step of the way.
She promised me again and again, “I’ll help you raise her. You won’t be alone.”
That promise stayed with me throughout the journey. It strengthened me in moments of doubt and hesitation and almost convinced me that even if I didn’t know what I was doing, I was doing the right thing.
When Sara Was Born
Naturally, the most obvious thing was to name my daughter after her.
More than that: from the moment I decided to begin the surrogacy process, I hoped with all my heart that I would have a daughter—if only so I could call her Sarah.
When Sarah was born, it felt as though my mother had been born again as well.
I had never seen her like that—so excited, so loving, overflowing with positive energy, with a smile that never left her face. And this after she had already raised three children, five grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.
At the age of seventy-six, she received, for the first time, a granddaughter named after her.
But there was another reason, no less powerful.
Sarah is my daughter.
The daughter of her firstborn son—the one she had hoped for decades would have a family of his own and not be alone in old age.
From my mother’s perspective, I imagine, this was the greatest miracle she had prayed for over many years.
Three Generations, One Family
After Sarah was born, my two-day-old daughter and I went straight from the hospital to my parents’ apartment.
For a full month, my experienced mother taught me everything a new father is supposed to know. And I, as usual, learned like a frightened child trying to appear calm.
During that month, the love between the original Sarah and the crown princess deepened. And I realized that there was someone who loved my little girl even more than I did.
When the month ended and I felt confident enough to move out with Sarah to our nearby neighborhood, my mother struggled to hide her disappointment—but she understood the logic behind the move.
She didn’t let the transition separate her from her granddaughter. She visited twice a day, in all weather, and in almost any physical condition.
Guilt began to creep in.
And then it hit me: My mother deserves much more than that.
Since then, I’ve divided my time between my home and my parents’ home, so she can enjoy her granddaughter as much as possible.
Passing the Crown
One day, the two of us stood watching Sarah play with the mobile hanging above her crib. We stared at her in silence, as if standing before a small miracle.
That was when I thanked my mother for everything she had done for me throughout my life.
But it was also a different moment.
A moment when, for the first time, I realized I was no longer just her son.
I am a parent myself now.
I told her that for many years she had been the most important thing in my life, and that now the queen mother would have to give up the title—to another Sarah.
To the crown princess.
As ballistic missile threats from Iran hang over all of us, I’m writing these lines from my parents’ home—where there is a reinforced safe room. In the background, my mother is dancing with my daughter Sarah to children’s songs on YouTube.
They say you shouldn’t praise someone to their face.
The renowned Israeli comedian Yossi Banai once replied, “If not to their face, then when? After they’re already dead?”
I have praised my mother to her face many times.
Now I am praising her to you.
Even though, deep down, I know that one day she will read this—and shed a tear or two.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 
What begins as a simple explanation for a baby’s name gradually unfolds into something much deeper: a reflection on memory, inheritance, and the quiet way family stories continue across generations.
The title itself — “The Original Sarah and the Crown Princess” — captures the central idea beautifully. The daughter is not just named after the grandmother; she becomes, in a sense, the next chapter of the same story. It’s a metaphor that feels both playful and profound.
What makes the essay stand out is its emotional honesty. The author doesn’t present fatherhood as a heroic transformation, but as a subtle shift in perspective. One moment you are someone’s child, shaped by a lifetime of influence — and the next, you realize that a new person has taken the center of your emotional universe.
There’s a quiet power in the way the grandmother is portrayed. She is not only a parent in the past tense, but a living presence whose influence echoes in the next generation. The decision to give the baby her name becomes more than a tribute; it becomes a symbolic passing of the torch.
The writing style is restrained and reflective. Instead of dramatic declarations, the essay relies on small observations and gentle humor. Phrases like “the crown princess” carry both affection and irony, reminding us that family roles are both deeply meaningful and slightly absurd at the same time.
By the end of the essay, the reader understands that this story is not really about a name. It’s about continuity — about how love, habits, and memories travel quietly from one generation to the next.
It’s a tender and thoughtful piece, and it leaves the reader with a simple realization: sometimes the most meaningful family legacies are the ones that appear in the smallest details — like the name of a child.
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This was a beautiful and surprisingly moving read. What starts as a story about naming a child slowly becomes a reflection on family, memory, and how life quietly shifts when you become a parent.
I especially loved the image in the title, “The Original Sarah and the Crown Princess.” It perfectly captures the sense that a family story doesn’t end with one generation — it continues, sometimes in the smallest and most touching ways.
The writing is simple, honest, and very human. By the end, I found myself thinking about my own parents and the invisible threads that connect different generations in a family.
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“The Original Sarah and the Crown Princess” is a thoughtful meditation on continuity within a family. Beneath the gentle narrative about naming a daughter lies a deeper exploration of how identities and emotional roles evolve across generations.
What is particularly striking is the symbolic framework created by the title itself. The grandmother becomes “the original,” while the newborn granddaughter is playfully described as “the crown princess.” The metaphor suggests succession, inheritance, and renewal — not in a royal dynasty, but in the everyday kingdom of family life.
The essay’s strength lies in its restraint. Rather than leaning on overt sentimentality, it allows meaning to emerge through reflection and small personal details. This understated approach makes the emotional core of the piece feel authentic and earned.
In the end, the text reminds us that family legacies are rarely grand or dramatic. They persist quietly — in habits, memories, and sometimes in something as simple as a name passed lovingly from one generation to the next.
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I absolutely loved this piece. What looks at first like a simple story about choosing a name quickly turns into something much deeper and more touching.
The moment I read the phrase “The Original Sarah and the Crown Princess,” I smiled. It’s such a beautiful and playful way to describe the connection between grandmother and granddaughter. In just a few words, the author captures the idea of succession, continuity, and love passing quietly from one generation to the next.
There is also something deeply moving in the way the author reflects on the shift that comes with parenthood — that subtle realization that life’s emotional center has changed. One line that stayed with me was the idea that the new baby suddenly becomes the new center of gravity in your life. Anyone who has experienced parenthood will immediately recognize that feeling.
What I admire most about the essay is its honesty. The writing doesn’t try to impress or dramatize; it simply tells the truth of a personal moment. And because of that, the story feels incredibly authentic.
The metaphor of the “crown princess” is both tender and slightly humorous, and it perfectly captures the quiet passing of the torch inside a family.
By the end, I felt that this wasn’t just a story about a name. It was a story about memory, gratitude, and the invisible thread that connects generations.
A wonderful, heartfelt piece that stayed with me long after I finished reading it.
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