The Days Before Mother's Day

The displays are up.

Rows of cards. Bouquets wrapped in ribbon. “Best Mom Ever” printed on mugs and tote bags and picture frames I’ll never buy.

It’s in my inbox. On my screen. Down every aisle of every store I walk into. The commercials with the soft music. The posts of mothers and daughters laughing, present, whole. The radio ads telling me not to forget her this year.

I haven’t forgotten her. That’s the problem.

There’s a pressure in my chest that starts somewhere around the first week of May. A heaviness I can’t always explain to the people around me. The world keeps moving and I’m standing in the space she used to fill, trying to figure out how to get through another one of these.

I scroll past the pictures of mothers and daughters and feel it all over again.

I’m still showing up. Answering messages. Folding the laundry. Doing the things. But underneath all of it, I’m bracing. For the silence. For the wave that’s coming. For the sharp little reminders that she’s not here, and she’s not going to be.

So, if I seem distant this week, or distracted, or just a little off — I am.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful. It’s not that I’m not trying.

It’s that my heart feels like it’s made of glass right now, and I’m just trying to get to the other side of Sunday without it shattering.