Her Birthday

When your mom dies, it changes you.

Grief feels different after that. It doesn’t come in waves that eventually fade away—it settles. It finds a place somewhere in your mind, somewhere in your chest, and it stays. You don’t learn how to get rid of it. You learn how to live with it. Even when you don’t fully know how.

You start to organize the important days. You take them and quietly file them away, giving each one its own meaning. You decide ahead of time what they’ll be—days to grieve, days to celebrate, days to sit somewhere in between. You try to create some sense of control in something that feels completely uncontrollable.

I always knew which days would be the hardest for me: her birthday, and the day she passed.

Those were my days.

Not Mother’s Day. Not the holidays. Just those two. They felt sacred in a way I didn’t need to explain. I knew I would either spend them with family—the people who would be there forever—or I would spend them alone. There was no in-between. I didn’t want anyone temporary stepping into something that was meant to last.

I didn’t want anything to taint those days.

I remember telling him that. It was early March. I told him that my mom’s birthday, March 24th, and the day she passed awsy were not days I wanted to spend with anyone. I remember being clear about it.

And I remember him not giving me a choice.

He said it was important. He insisted on being there. I remember telling him, very clearly, if you’re not going to be here forever, do not spend her birthday with me. This is a day that belongs to her. I don’t want anyone else to touch it.

But he insisted anyway.

He insisted we’d go to her favorite place to eat. He insisted we’d go to the beach. Places that meant so much to me—places that meant so much to her.

And even though, deep down, I knew that day was something I needed to hold on my own, I said yes.

So we went.

We ate at her favorite place. We went to the beach and walked. We stopped at the Sandcastle and had a drink, because that’s what she and I used to do.

And now, when I think about her birthday, it’s not just her that comes to mind.

There’s a part of me that thinks about him, too.

And it makes me angry.

Because that day wasn’t supposed to include anyone else. It wasn’t supposed to carry another memory, especially not one tied to someone who didn’t stay. It was supposed to be hers. It was supposed to be untouched.

And now it isn’t.

Now it feels like something sacred has been altered. Like something that belonged only to her—and to me—has been mixed with something I never wanted there in the first place.

So now, every year, I don’t just sit with grief.

I sit with anger, too.

And I’m still trying to figure out what to do with both.

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