I still mother them….

Today feels like one of those days where your heart does not know what lane it is supposed to stay in.

Five years ago today, Deanna died. My daughter’s best friend. One of those people that just became family somewhere along the way. The kind of person who leaves fingerprints all over your life and your heart.

Deanna taught me a lot about recovery. Not because I sat in a class or read a book. She taught me by living it. By talking about meetings, sponsors, working a program, accountability, and the hard work recovery really takes. She taught me that recovery is not just wanting it. It is showing up for it, over and over again, even on the hard days.

And if I am being honest, the irony of today still hurts my heart.

The person who taught me so much about working a program and having a sponsor is gone.

That part still messes with me.

Because there are days I still do not understand addiction and recovery. Days I still ask why. Why some people fight so hard and still lose. Why some people do all the things they are supposed to do and are still gone. Why love is not always enough.

But if you knew Deanna, you knew she loved hard.

After Vincent died, I could not even imagine celebrating Mother’s Day. It felt impossible. But Deanna would not let me sit in the sadness that year. She drove all the way up to New Castle County to get me and drove all the way back to Sussex County so we could have seafood dinner together. She made sure I did not spend the day alone in my grief.

That is who she was.

She celebrated holidays with us. Loved my family like they were hers. Loved my daughter. Loved my grandkids.

The day before she died, she took my granddaughter to a flea market. I still remember teasing her that if they found treasure, I was absolutely in on it. We were going to antique roadshows together and laughed about what random thing might secretly be worth a million dollars.

Every Easter when I see edible Easter grass, I laugh and think of her because she had never seen it before and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She loved mocha candy. She used to send me the most ridiculously complicated recipes and then text me, “Is dinner ready yet?” like I had spent all day in the kitchen making them.

I still have her Buddha planter filled with plants. Every time I look at it, I think about her. I think about how she should be here with us laughing. Sitting around a table. Making fun of something ridiculous. Asking what is for dinner.

And somehow, life in all its weirdness, put her anniversary on the same day as Mike Stubbs’ 10-year recovery anniversary.

Five years since loss.

Ten years of recovery.

Mike, who read a poem at my daughter’s funeral when words felt impossible. Mike, who gives the best hugs in the whole entire universe. The kind that feel safe. The kind that quietly say, “I got you,” without ever having to say the words.

He is loud in his recovery in the best possible way. The whole universe hears him. He shows people what recovery really looks like. Honest. Messy. Beautiful. Hard fought.

And maybe that is the lesson in today.

That grief and gratitude somehow sit at the same table.

That sadness and joy coexist.

That death and life stand shoulder to shoulder reminding us how fragile and beautiful all of this really is.

Today I miss Deanna. I miss her laugh. I miss her texts. I miss her ridiculous recipes and her giant heart. I hate that she is not here.

But there is comfort in this too.

Because I like to think she was waiting for Gabriella when she got to heaven.

And somehow that thought makes my heart hurt a little less.