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Week 154: The 3rd Year Without You

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To My Dearest Lily


It’s been three years since you left this world, and not a single day has passed when I haven’t thought of you—craved your little hand in mine, remembered the way your bright blue eyes sparkled, or felt that familiar lift inside me when you smiled. You brought so much life into our lives, and in your absence the silence has become its own presence.


People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but that word fonder doesn’t come close to what I feel. I crave you the way a sweet tooth aches—an ache that can never be satisfied. And yet I know, unequivocally, that you are not gone. You have simply transformed. I feel you. I receive your signs. I know when you are near because joy rises in me at the same time sorrow pulls at me—love and grief braided together. It hurts, but I’ll take that ache as a substitute for your presence. Some days, it’s enough. Today, it was. And I’m grateful.


I’ve had to learn how to live without you these last three years, just as I once had to learn how to live with you during the twenty-five years we were gifted together. You were an angel who touched down briefly, just long enough to change everything. You taught me more than I ever imagined learning in this lifetime. You opened me spiritually—helped me see beyond the five senses—simply by being you.


You were classified as “moderate to severe special needs.” You couldn’t read or write or dress yourself. Some people wrote you off because of that. If I hadn’t been your mother, if I hadn’t had you to guide me, I might have made the same mistake. But you opened my eyes to another way of knowing, another way of being. You showed me the wonder you carried in your presence, your energy, your determination, your grit. You never gave up. You always found a way to communicate what mattered to you—one way or another.


Being your mom was the greatest gift of my life. You taught me patience, understanding, and a thousand other invisible lessons too many to name. You stretched my heart and softened it. You made me who I am. And even now—especially now—you continue to.


The third anniversary came and went without fanfare. Your dad and I went out for Mexican—your favorite—and we ordered chips and salsa for you, just like we always used to. The day itself felt heavy, full of flashbacks, my body weighted with a familiar sorrow that settled into every corner. But the next morning, I woke up feeling you. The air felt lighter. I felt lighter. And in that quiet, I knew: even on the hardest days, you still find your way back 

I love you always and forever.

Mom 


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