I still mother them….

Today feels heavy in a way I cannot really explain. Not bad heavy. Just full. Full of gratitude. Full of sadness. Full of beautiful memories from vacation and the kind of missing that seems to follow me everywhere now.

I came home from a beautiful trip. The kind you dream about. Blue water. Great food. Laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Pool days with people I love. A swim out room. A giant bathtub that felt fancy. Fresh coconuts picked right there. Swimming with fish. Lobster on a boat. New drinks. So many moments where I caught myself thinking this is really special.

But grief came too. It always does.

Every beautiful thing I saw, I thought about them. Gabriella would have loved this place. Vincent would have loved this food. He would have wanted to snorkel longer. She would have wanted pictures of every single thing. I think when you lose kids, they still go with you everywhere. Not physically. But in your thoughts. In the conversations in your head. In the million little moments where you think, they should be here.

I still mother them. I always will.

People ask how many kids I have and I still pause sometimes. I know people mean nothing by it, but grief makes simple questions complicated. I have two kids. I still have two kids. They are just not here. Then comes the next question. How old are they? Forever 23. Forever 35. Or do I say what would have been? I still do not know the right answer to that one.

One morning on vacation I sat by the ocean after sprinkling some of both of my kids together in water so beautiful it almost did not seem real. The kind of blue water they both would have loved. I sat there watching the waves slowly wash away where their ashes had rested in the sand and I just cried. Quiet tears. The kind that come when there are no words big enough.

There is something nobody prepares you for about leaving pieces of your children somewhere. Even somewhere beautiful. Even when it feels meaningful. At the end of the day, those ashes are still part of their physical body. And as a mom, leaving any part of your child anywhere feels impossible.

The strangest thing about grief is beautiful places do not make it go away. You can be laughing and genuinely happy and still feel sadness sitting right next to you. Both things can be true at the same time. I had one of the best vacations of my life and still missed my kids every single day of it.

And then I came home and real life was waiting. Laundry. Work. Suitcases. And planning Adriano’s 13th birthday without his mom here.

I do not even know how to put into words how sad that feels.

He was her ride or die. Her person. And she was his. They had that bond where they just got each other. She would have been so excited planning this birthday. Asking me what we should make. What cupcakes to get. What snacks he wanted. Telling me not to make too big of a deal because “Mom, you know Adriano.”

And honestly, that is exactly who he is. Sweet. Easygoing. Still such a kid in the best ways. He asked for five friends to come over and just hang out. Make s’mores in the fire pit. Throw the basketball around. A pull apart cupcake cake. Nothing fancy. No huge party. Just his people together. Just being a kid.

And while we are planning it, there is this ache sitting underneath all of it because she should be here. She should be seeing him turn 13. She should be taking too many pictures and embarrassing him a little. She should be standing in the kitchen helping me get everything ready.

I think people believe healing means the sadness leaves. I do not think that is true. I think you just learn to carry joy and heartbreak at the same time. To laugh and cry in the same season. To have a beautiful trip and still feel the missing. To celebrate birthdays while your heart quietly breaks for who should be standing there beside you.

And that is grief, I guess. It does not take turns with joy. They somehow exist together. But love stays too. Motherhood stays too. I still mother them. I still carry them. Everywhere I go. Every beautiful place. Every hard day. Every birthday. Every single day.