My mom was the best person I knew—other than my dad. Everything about her was extraordinary. I treasured her laugh, her voice, and the way she looked at me like I was the best thing that had ever happened in her life, even when I messed up. She passed away a few years ago, and whether it’s been a day, a month, or a year, that pain doesn’t fade. What you do is overcome it and find a way to make you stronger. Sometimes it just sits quietly in the back of my mind. Other days, it hits me like a truck and I can hardly think.

  She was a wonderful nurse practitioner—one of the best in the state, or so I’ve been told. She’d work twelve-hour shifts, come home, help me with homework, and then surprise my dad and me with a new dinner she found on TikTok or some other “ungodly” app. My dad hates technology and does not understand any of these cool apps and calls them ungodly. Every Friday was “Try Something New” night. We never knew she'd come home with us. One day, she would have Thai food in takeout containers. The spices were so weird, I couldn’t even pronounce them. Sometimes it would be normal food, but it was changed so much that you wouldn’t even recognize what it was. Her food was always amazing. She always said food was love, and when she cooked, it was.

  Even after she was diagnosed with heart cancer, she stayed strong. Not fake strong—real strong. She laughed, she smiled, she held me when I cried, even though it was her life on the line. One night before I fell asleep, I asked her some questions. I was scared. She kissed me on the forehead and said, “I’m not scared of dying. I’m scared of missing you growing up.”

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  There was a treatment that could have prolonged her life, but it meant living in a hospital, hooked up to machines, away from us. She didn’t want that. She chose to live while she still had life to live. She chose us over herself.

  I’ll never stop missing her. She was my safe place, my warmth. Even now, she is still my warmth. On the hardest days, I think of her voice. It plays in my head like a lullaby. She once told me, “Even after I’m gone from this world, I’ll still be with you. I am within your heart, in your dreams, in the way you treat people. I will always love you.” I try to live like that, to remember her and follow her example.

  She died at 9:37 A.M. on February 29, 2028. I was ten. She died a believer in Christ, so maybe one day I’ll see her again in Heaven—on a day that only comes once every four years. Her funeral was a week later. People came—some cried, some smiled through it, others just stood quietly and watched. After the burial—my dad helped dig the grave—he left with tears streaming down his face. I felt bad for him. If it was hard for me, I knew it was five times harder for him.

  It’s not just the memories. It’s my dad too. I see him breaking into pieces. He tries to hide it, but I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the way he stares out the window too long. I’ve heard him crying at night, thinking I was asleep. That’s the part that crushes me. Not just losing her, but watching my dad try to survive losing her too. Some nights I want to knock on his door and tell him I hear him, that I miss her too… but I don’t. We just carry it.

  People say grief gets easier. Maybe it does—for some people. For me, it just changed shape. It’s not a storm anymore—it’s a shadow. Always there. Always quiet. Always reminding me of what I lost… and what I had.