Big birthdays have a way of sneaking up on us—wearing party hats, popping confetti, and sometimes cracking open places we thought were stitched shut.
A friend’s 50th this week stirred more than I expected. Her celebration reminded me of my own 50th, which began with laughter and ended in unthinkable loss.
It also brought back the quiet, fierce love of the people who stood by us—who stood by you.
This post is for them.
And for you, darling daughter.
And for all the small, sacred moments that linger long after the music fades.
🎉 Susan’s Party
This week, your dad and I went to a 50th birthday party for our Dutch friend, Susan. She always adored you. Honestly, I think she dropped by more for you than for me. Even though you were always a little suspicious of anyone who dared pull my attention away, she never gave up trying to connect with you. And I appreciated that—deeply—even if you didn’t show it at the time.
When I first got the invite, I hate to admit it, but my gut reaction was one word:
Fifty.
That number still knocks the wind out of me. It used to mean champagne and travel brochures. Now it feels like a fault line.
That year began so beautifully. I had celebrations that filled my cup: long, wine-drenched hikes with girlfriends at the cabin, a Caribbean cruise with a high school friend—me from California, her from Oklahoma, meeting in Galveston like we were in a rom-com. There was a bottle of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries waiting in our room. I remember exhaling for the first time in months as we lounged by the pool with frozen margaritas and paperbacks.
We had no schedule. No alarms. Just sun, sea, and the kind of relaxed companionship that comes from knowing each other for over thirty years.
I came back tan, relaxed, recharged—ready to dive back into mom mode, your caregiver, your everything.
The year began in joy.
It ended in heartbreak.
That was the year I lost you.
You were 25.
And I was 25 when I became your mom.
That symmetry still takes my breath away. Life. Death. Rebirth.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Not really. There’s something there—some thread I haven’t unraveled yet. Some kind of message stitched into the timing.
In those first days of grief, I remember thinking: No one should have to lose their child at 50.
But more than that—no one should have to be the child lost.
🥂 At the Party
We went to Susan’s party, of course. She’s been through her own fires—life hasn’t been easy for her—but I hoped this birthday would be different. That it would be full of sparkle, not sorrow.
I smiled. I laughed. I clinked glasses.
But halfway through a conversation about her kitchen remodel, my mind wandered to another night in her ktichen: taco night, your teasing flirtation with her fiancé, your sly grin. You were so full of mischief and charm that evening. We were celebrating their engagement then.
And now—here we were, celebrating her 50th.
And I was doing my best not to fall into the memories.
Not everything is about me, I told myself.
And I meant it. I really did. I stayed for two hours before my smile started to fray at the edges. Before my body, in the form of anxiety, told me it was time to go.
☕ Coffee with Maria
Just days earlier, I’d had coffee with Maria—tiny, polished, always impeccably put together. Manicured nails, flawless makeup, heels that would give me altitude sickness. On the outside, she looks like a glamour ad. On the inside, she’s forged of iron and soft heartache.
Maria juggles more than most: a full-time job, a chronically ill husband, aging parents, and a son with special needs. And yet, she always makes space for me.
You met her years ago, back in elementary school. She worked in your classroom, took one look at you, and declared she wanted you to marry her son.
Remember the pretend date we set up at that Mexican restaurant when you were about 16 years old?
Maria called ahead—arranged a table with a white tablecloth and fresh flowers. Guitar music floated through the air like we were in a telenovela.
You and her son were utterly unimpressed. You declared “EAT!” with that royal authority of yours, and that was that. No ceremony, just salsa.
Mexican food was your language of love. Chips were your ice cream sundae, your reward, your comfort food. You refused to share a basket. And honestly, same.
That night wasn’t really for you two. It was for us—two moms dreaming briefly of normalcy, of dinner dates and milestones we knew might never come. For one sweet hour, we let ourselves believe. We drank margaritas, toasted each other as warrior moms, and pretended that anything was possible.
💔 Bittersweet Realities
Now, when I see Maria, it’s always a gift—but a bittersweet one. She lives where I once did. Her life is still measured in appointments, therapies, meltdowns forecasted like weather patterns.
She always asks how I’m doing.
And I tell her the truth: I’m okay. Most days. Some days the weight lifts. Others, it crushes my chest without warning.
She listens.
Really listens.
And though we don’t say it aloud, I know she sees it—I am her fear made flesh. The reality no parent like us ever wants to imagine.
I have crossed a line she prays never to reach.
There is no language big enough to bridge that space.
🌟 What Remains
Still, we laugh. We swap stories. She calls out mid-conversation, reminding her son to wash his hands. He, like you, never liked being upstaged. Some things don’t change.
Caring for you taught me a kind of patience I never knew I had. A love that didn’t need words. A radar for feelings unspoken.
Now, I carry that with me—alongside the pain, yes, but also alongside the light.
Because in the end, it’s the little things—the chips in a basket, the messy, beautiful birthdays—that become sacred.
🕊️ The Shape of Love
Time doesn’t heal everything. But it softens.
It dulls the sharpest edges.
It lets joy and grief live side by side.
Old memories show up like trusted friends.
Love keeps changing shape—but never disappearing.
I hold onto those small moments now.
They remind me that connection never dies.
It only transforms.
💬 To You, Dear Reader
Maybe you’ve had one of those sacred moments lately.
A birthday. A taco night. A kind word that came when you needed it most.
Hold onto it.
Let it remind you that love—however it arrives—is never wasted.
🕯️ A Quiet Acknowledgment
Yesterday was Bereaved Mother’s Day—a day that many don’t even know exists. A day set aside for those of us who mother children no longer here. For those who carry love with nowhere physical to place it.
I just want to say: I see you.
If you are one of us, if your heart carries a name it cannot call aloud—this post is also for you.
You are not alone. Our love lives on, sacred and unshakable, even in silence.
If this touched something in you, share it with someone who might need a reminder that love lingers—in memory, in connection, in the spaces in between.,in your classroom, took one look at you,
Share a thought, a memory, or just let me know you were here.