I still mother them….

Seventy-six days later, I still run into people who ask, “Anything new?”

And I still have to say the words out loud.

My daughter died.

Somehow, those words still get stuck in my throat.

I can tell people that I lost my daughter. I can tell people she’s gone. But saying, “My daughter died” still feels like trying to swallow broken glass.

I hear people talking about their daughters. The phone calls. The shopping trips. The texts they got that morning. The plans they have this weekend.

And if I’m being honest, a piece of my soul gets jealous.

Then angry.

Not at them.

Just at the unfairness of it all.

Because I should still have those things too.

Seventy-six days later, I still have people ask me if they know how she died.

And what I want to do is scream:

Why does it matter?

Why?

My daughter is dead.

The answer doesn’t change that.

The cause doesn’t change that.

The outcome doesn’t change that.

My child is gone.

Both of my children are gone.

Instead of sitting at my dinner table, their cremains sit on a table in my living room.

Some days I keep fresh flowers there.

Some days I stop and talk to them.

Some days I just stare at the boxes and wonder how this became my life.

How did I become the mother of two adult children who aren’t here anymore?

People think grief is crying.

Sometimes it is.

But sometimes grief is standing in your living room looking at two urns and remembering when those same children used to run through your house, leave dishes in the sink, make messes, argue with you, hug you, and drive you crazy.

I’d give anything for one more mess.

One more phone call.

One more “Mom.”

Seventy-six days later, I still don’t have answers to a lot of things.

But I know this:

I miss them both every single day.