Time teaches you how to carry it without collapsing in public.

That’s different.

Some losses don’t shrink.

You just grow around them.

I finally dragged myself out of bed around eight and made coffee in the quiet kitchen.

Mother’s Day used to mean pancakes at her house.

Always pancakes.

My mother believed every important life event could somehow be improved with breakfast food.

Birthdays.
Breakups.
Promotions.
Funerals.

Especially pancakes.

I still have the handwritten recipe card she kept taped inside a kitchen cabinet.

The corners are stained with butter and vanilla extract.

Sometimes I hold it like it’s fragile enough to still contain part of her.

That morning I stood in my kitchen holding my coffee mug while memories ambushed me without warning.

Her singing badly while cooking.

Her laughing so hard she snorted.

The way she always touched my cheek when I was sick, even when I was thirty years old.

I thought grief would eventually become more organized.

Cleaner somehow.

But it’s chaotic.

It attacks through ordinary things.

A smell.
A song.
A recipe.
A random Sunday morning.

By noon I was emotionally exhausted from simply existing.

I almost declined the brunch invitation from my friend Rachel, but staying home felt worse somehow.

So I went.

And honestly?

That may have been a mistake.

The restaurant was packed with families celebrating.

Little kids carrying handmade cards.

Women taking photos with their mothers.

Grandmothers holding babies.

Everywhere I looked was evidence of something I no longer had access to.

Rachel tried so hard to distract me.

She talked about work.
Vacation plans.
Celebrity gossip.

But grief sat at the table with us anyway.

At one point, the waitress smiled warmly and asked, “Doing anything special with your mom today?”

I swear my entire body froze.

Rachel answered for me immediately.

“Her mother passed away.”

The waitress looked horrified.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”