Jodie Foster, the two-time Academy Award-winning actress and filmmaker, has spent much of her 58-year career in the spotlight, portraying characters who embody solitude and resilience. From her chilling role as Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs to her directorial debut in Little Man Tate, Foster has often been the solitary woman under pressure, a theme that mirrors her own fiercely guarded personal life. But on a quiet afternoon on May 27, 2025, in a small cemetery in Los Angeles, Foster experienced a moment of unexpected connection that pierced through her carefully constructed walls of privacy. Sitting alone at her mother’s grave, grappling with grief six years after her mother’s passing, Foster was interrupted by a little boy whose innocent words broke her emotional barriers in a way she never saw coming.

A Solitary Visit to a Sacred Space

The cemetery, nestled in a serene corner of Los Angeles, was bathed in the soft golden light of late spring. Jodie Foster, now 62, sat cross-legged on the grass in front of her mother Evelyn “Brandy” Foster’s gravestone. Evelyn, who passed away in 2019 at the age of 90 after a battle with dementia, had been more than just a mother to Jodie—she was her manager, her confidante, and the driving force behind her early career. As a former publicist and big band singer, Evelyn had guided Jodie from her first Coppertone commercial at age three to her Oscar-winning roles, a bond that Jodie once described as “superglue-tight” in a 2024 interview with The Rake. But that bond also came with complexities, as Jodie often felt her childhood was shaped by her mother’s ambitions, leaving little room for normalcy.

On this particular day, Foster had come to the cemetery seeking solitude, a place where she could reflect on her mother’s life and the void left behind. Dressed in a simple gray sweater and jeans, her signature low-key style, she traced the engraved letters on the headstone: “Evelyn ‘Brandy’ Foster, 1929–2019. An Original Like No Other.” The epitaph, written by Jodie and her siblings, captured Evelyn’s fiery spirit—a woman who, at five feet tall, was a “champion, a fighter, full of fire and love,” as they wrote in her obituary. Jodie sat in silence, her thoughts a tangled mix of gratitude and unresolved grief. She had always been private about her emotions, a trait she developed as a child star under constant scrutiny, and this moment was no exception. Or so she thought.

An Unexpected Visitor

As Foster sat lost in her memories, she noticed a small figure approaching through the rows of headstones. A boy, no older than six, with tousled brown hair and a curious expression, wandered toward her. He wore a slightly oversized jacket and carried a small bouquet of daisies, clearly picked from a nearby field. Behind him, a woman—presumably his mother—followed at a distance, keeping a watchful eye but giving him space to explore. The boy stopped a few feet from Jodie, staring at her with the unfiltered curiosity only a child can muster.

“Are you sad?” he asked, his voice clear and direct, cutting through the stillness of the cemetery. Jodie, caught off guard, looked up from the gravestone, her eyes meeting his. She hesitated, her instinct to retreat into privacy battling with the boy’s earnest question. “Yes,” she finally replied, her voice soft but steady. “I’m visiting my mom. She’s… not here anymore.” The boy tilted his head, processing her words, then pointed to the headstone. “Is that her? My grandma’s over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward another section of the cemetery. “I bring her flowers sometimes. Do you bring flowers for your mom?”

Jodie smiled faintly, touched by his innocence. “Sometimes,” she said, though she hadn’t brought any that day. The boy stepped closer, holding out his bouquet of daisies. “You can have these,” he offered. “They make my grandma happy, so maybe they’ll make your mom happy too.” Jodie’s breath caught in her throat. The gesture, so simple yet so pure, struck a chord deep within her. She accepted the flowers, her hands trembling slightly, and placed them gently on the grave. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “That’s very kind of you.”

Words That Shatter the Silence

The boy sat down beside her, uninvited but undeterred, his small frame mirroring her cross-legged position. “My name’s Ethan,” he said, as if they were old friends. “What’s yours?” Jodie hesitated again—she rarely shared her personal life with strangers—but something about Ethan’s openness disarmed her. “I’m Jodie,” she replied. Ethan nodded, then looked at the headstone again. “Did your mom love you a lot?” he asked, his tone matter-of-fact. The question hit Jodie like a wave, stirring memories of her complicated relationship with Evelyn. Her mother had been her fiercest advocate, but their bond was often strained by the pressures of Jodie’s career and Evelyn’s own struggles as a single mother of four after her divorce from Lucius Foster, Jodie’s father, before Jodie was even born.

“She did,” Jodie answered after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes it was hard for her to show it the way I needed.” Ethan frowned, clearly trying to understand. Then, in a moment that would change the day for Jodie, he said, “That’s okay. I bet she’s hugging you right now, even if you can’t feel it. That’s what my grandma does for me.” The words, spoken with the unwavering belief of a child, broke something open in Jodie. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. For years, she had carried the weight of her mother’s absence, the unresolved questions, the longing for a connection that felt complete. Ethan’s simple belief—that her mother was still there, hugging her from beyond—offered a comfort Jodie hadn’t realized she needed.

A Moment of Healing

Ethan’s mother, noticing the interaction, approached cautiously. “Ethan, honey, let’s not bother the lady,” she said, her tone apologetic. But Jodie shook her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “He’s not bothering me,” she said, her voice steadier now. “He’s been… wonderful.” She turned to Ethan, who was now playing with a blade of grass, oblivious to the emotional storm he’d just calmed. “Thank you, Ethan,” she said again, this time with a genuine smile. “You’ve made my day a lot brighter.” Ethan grinned, his gap-toothed smile lighting up his face. “You’re welcome, Jodie! I hope your mom likes the flowers.” With that, he hopped up, took his mother’s hand, and waved goodbye as they walked away.

Jodie sat for a long while after they left, the daisies resting on her mother’s grave like a small beacon of hope. The boy’s words echoed in her mind: I bet she’s hugging you right now, even if you can’t feel it. For someone who had spent decades guarding her privacy—once telling The Atlantic in 2024 that acting was her “space of privacy and control” because her mother couldn’t “get inside my body and take that experience from me”—this moment of vulnerability felt both foreign and liberating. Jodie had always been the solitary woman, both on screen and off, but Ethan’s innocent belief in an unseen connection reminded her that solitude didn’t have to mean loneliness.

A New Perspective on Connection

The encounter with Ethan came at a pivotal time for Jodie. Fresh off her Emmy win for True Detective: Night Country in September 2024, where she played the cold yet nuanced Chief Liz Danvers, Jodie had been reflecting on her own life as a mother to her two sons, Charlie and Kit, whom she shares with her former partner Cydney Bernard. She had always been intentional about giving her boys a normal, private life, telling People in 2024 that she didn’t even tell them she was an actress when they were young, letting them believe she was a construction worker. But Ethan’s words made her think about the kind of emotional legacy she wanted to leave for her own children—a legacy of love that they could feel, even in her absence.

Jodie’s career has often explored themes of isolation and resilience, from her role as a child prostitute in Taxi Driver at age 12 to her portrayal of a scientist venturing into space alone in Contact. But this moment at her mother’s grave marked a shift. It reminded her of something she said in her 2013 Golden Globe Cecil B. DeMille Award speech: “I want to be seen, to be understood, deeply, and to be not so very lonely.” Ethan, with his daisies and his simple faith, had seen her in a way few ever had—not as a Hollywood star, but as a grieving daughter, a human being in need of connection.

A Lasting Impact

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Jodie stood up, brushing the grass from her jeans. She took one last look at her mother’s grave, the daisies a small but vibrant reminder of the day’s unexpected gift. For the first time in years, she felt a sense of peace about her mother’s passing—a peace born not from closure, but from the possibility of an ongoing connection, one that transcended the physical world. Ethan’s words had given her a new lens through which to view her grief, one that allowed for love to persist in unseen ways.

Jodie Foster has always been a master of solitude, both in her craft and her life. But on that quiet afternoon in a Los Angeles cemetery, a little boy named Ethan showed her that even in solitude, connection is possible—and sometimes, it comes when you least expect it. As she walked away from the grave, a small smile played on her lips, and for the first time in a long while, Jodie felt her mother’s hug, just as Ethan had promised. 💖