Mother’s Day started with silence.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind that presses against your chest the second you open your eyes.

The kind that reminds you something is missing before your brain is even fully awake.
I reached for my phone at 6:14 in the morning out of pure instinct.
For one disorienting second, I forgot.

Then reality hit me again.

There would be no message waiting for me.

No “Happy Mother’s Day, my girl.”

No badly spelled text because she never learned autocorrect.

No voice memo telling me not to work too hard.

No call later asking if I’d eaten breakfast yet.

Nothing.

Just the blank glow of my lock screen staring back at me.

I laid there for a while pretending I was okay.

Pretending the pressure in my chest wasn’t slowly building.

Pretending today was just another Sunday.

But grief doesn’t care what you pretend.

Especially not on Mother’s Day.

The world begins celebrating before you even have the chance to protect yourself from it.

By 7 AM my social media feeds were already flooded.

Flowers.

Brunch photos.

Mothers holding babies.

Adult daughters hugging aging moms tightly like they somehow understood how lucky they were.

Captions saying:
“My best friend.”
“My first love.”
“My safe place.”

I stared at those words longer than I should have.

Safe place.

That’s what my mother used to feel like.

Even as an adult.

Even after I had my own apartment, my own career, my own responsibilities.

She was still the person I called first.

Bad day at work?
Call Mom.

Heartbreak?
Call Mom.

Flat tire?
Call Mom.

Exciting news?
Definitely call Mom.

There was something comforting about knowing someone existed in the world who loved you before you became anything useful.

Before achievements.

Before mistakes.

Before adulthood hardened you.

She loved me simply because I was hers.

And now she was gone.

Two years.

Two entire years without her.

People say time softens grief, but I think that’s only partially true.