I never thought that would be the last time.

The last conversation. The last hug. The last “I love you.”

If I’d known, I would’ve held on longer. Said more. Paid more attention. Made it count.

But I didn’t know. Because you never do.

You think you have more time. You think there will be other conversations, other visits, other chances to say the things you need to say.

And then suddenly, there aren’t.

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I pulled into the cemetery.

I’ve done this so many times now. You’d think it would get easier.

It doesn’t.

I parked in the same spot I always do. Close enough that I can see their headstone from here. Far enough that I have a minute to sit with myself before I have to walk over there and face it.

I turned off the engine. Sat there. Hands gripping the steering wheel.

The flowers I bought are sitting on the passenger seat. I grabbed them at the grocery store on the way here. I always bring something. It feels wrong to show up empty-handed.

I took a breath. And then I got out of the car.

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I was sitting in my car in the Walmart parking lot. Crying.

Not the kind of crying where a few tears roll down your cheeks and you wipe them away with the back of your hand.

The ugly kind. The kind where you can’t catch your breath. The kind where your whole body is shaking. The kind where your chest hurts from sobbing.

I’d gone to Walmart to buy laundry detergent. That’s it. Just detergent.

But I walked past the card aisle. And I saw the birthday cards. Rows and rows of them. “Happy Birthday.” “Celebrate You.” “Another Year Older.”

And I remembered. My mom’s birthday is next week.

And I won’t be buying her a card. Because she’s gone.

And it hit me. Like it always does. Out of nowhere. In the middle of Walmart.

I made it to the car. Threw the detergent in the backseat. Got in the driver’s seat. And completely fell apart.

I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there. Five minutes? Twenty? Honestly, I wasn’t keeping track.

And then I heard it. A knock on my window.

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I accidentally called my mom’s cell phone the other day.

Well, not accidentally. I butt-dialed her. Which feels fitting somehow—like my phone knew I still needed to reach her.

I saw her name pop up on my screen and my heart stopped.

It was ringing.

I hung up immediately. Not because I realized she was gone—I know she’s gone. I just... panicked. It freaked me out.

And then I sat there. Staring at my phone. Wondering.

Does someone else have that number now? Or is it just... gone? Disconnected? Lost in some void where old phone numbers go when the people who used them don’t exist anymore?

A couple minutes later, my phone rang.

The number. Calling me back.

My stomach dropped. I answered.

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I lived through the day you left this world.

The worst day of my life. And I survived it.

I don’t know how. But I did.

I was there. I watched it happen. I felt my world collapse in real time.

And somehow, I’m still here.

People say, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” But the truth is, I couldn’t have imagined it either. Not before it happened.

I couldn’t have imagined what it feels like to watch someone you love slip away. To hold their hand. To say goodbye knowing they might not hear you.

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People mean well.

They offer advice.

They tell you how strong you are.

They say things like “they’d want you to be happy,” or “at least they’re not suffering.”

They talk about closure. About moving on. About staying positive.

But here’s the thing—

Until you’ve sat in the front row at a funeral…

Until you’ve looked at a casket and felt like the world cracked open…

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I’m tired of being “the grief person.”

The one people look at with sympathy. The one they talk about in hushed tones. The one they’re careful around because they don’t want to say the wrong thing.

The one whose pain defines them.

I used to be more than this. I used to be funny. Lighthearted. Someone people wanted to be around because I made things better, not heavier.

But now? Now I’m the person who lost someone. And that’s all anyone sees.

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