My mom is dead.
I hate that sentence.
I hate writing it.
I hate that no matter how much I hate it, it’s still true.
When I get sick, I want my mom.
I want her asking what’s wrong.
Checking on me.
Calling again because she’s worried.
No one will ever take care of me like she did.
And I don’t care how old I get.
Being sick without her makes me feel like a little girl crying for her mom.
When something good happens, I want to tell her first.
I want to hear her get excited.
Tell her every detail, because she would want to hear all of it.
And it hurts to be that happy about something and still want to cry because my mom isn’t here for it.
When I’m scared, I want her to tell me it’s going to be okay.
Even if she can’t promise that.
I just want to hear it from her.
There are things I’ll never get to ask her.
About my childhood.
About her life before me.
Things only she could tell me.
I thought we had more time.
And sometimes I just want to talk to my mom.
Nothing happened.
I just miss her.
I want to hear her voice.
Hear her laugh.
I hate that I can’t even have that anymore.
Just a conversation with my mom.
I want to be her daughter with her here.
Now I have pictures.
Memories.
Whatever I can still remember of her voice.
But I want my mother.
I want to hug her without having to remember what it felt like.
My mom died once.
But her being dead didn’t end with that day.
It’s every day I’ve lived since.
And every day I have left.
I think that’s the part I still can’t accept.
That I have to spend the rest of my life loving her without getting to spend any more of it with her.
She’s dead. Forever.
If these words connected with you, you’ll find many more like them in What Remains. It’s a collection of the writings I’ve shared over the years, bringing together reflections on grief, love, loss, and the connections that continue long after someone is gone.
I hope it brings you comfort, understanding, and the reminder that you’re not alone.
If you’d like to read more, you can find the book here
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