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Twenty-Three Years

Dear Mom

By Michelle SchultzPublished 4 years ago 4 min read
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Dear mom,

It's been twenty - three years to the day since you died. I have accomplished a lot in that time. From being able to go to the bathroom by myself, to graduating high school, having a baby, and now graduating again and soon getting married.

I have had so many questions over the years. There have been so many events I wish you were there for. There were so many times, especially during my teenage years, that I wished desperately that you were just able to talk to me for ten minutes. When my daughter was first born, my thought was you. You weren't around for your first grandchild and you won't be around for any to come.

I'm getting married, mom. He's so perfect. He's nothing like anyone I've ever dated. Which I suppose is the point. But he's perfect. He's amazing with my daughter, mom. He's going to adopt her. We're going to be a full family. That concept makes me so happy and so sad. For twenty-three years I've wondered what it would be like to be the family that sat down to dinner every night and had a mom that read bedtime stories and helped with homework. You weren't there for any of the major events but I think it's the little things I'm appreciating the most in my new found family.

I always admired dad for being a single parent as long as he was. But it's so wonderful, mom, to have someone to bounce ideas off of. To have that extra voice saying play time is over when she won't listen to just me. I know I can do it on my own. I did it alone. Which made me respect dad even more for how much he did for us after you passed away. You picked an outstanding partner to help raise your kids, mom. I like to believe he did a great job. However, this family life is making me wonder what our lives would be like together.

She's now the same age I was when you died. That thought scares me. She doesn't even really understand the concept of death. To explain it to her, I told her you were where with Coco (A Disney Movie about the afterlife) but that you wouldn't be able to come back like the little boy in the movie. I take her to your grave when I visit. She helps me pick out flowers for you. I'm sure for her little mind, it seems like we're talking a walk. It really is beautiful scenery where you're buried. But for me, it's passing on a childhood tradition. Dad took us to see you so often. And it wasn't something I dreaded. I looked forward to it. We bonded as a family. Sure we cried, every time. Almost without fail. But we were together and we would walk and talk to you and pick out flowers for you. It's odd, but the cemetery, it's not an unhappy place to me.

I'm trying so desperately to give my daughter the mother you didn't get a chance to be. Every time I yell, or I feel like I'm too hard on her, I try to think of what you would do. I go back and try to dig in my memory, even though I know it's not there. My memories are just things other people told me about you. I'd like to believe that you'd be proud of me. But in my lesser moments, when she's being complicated, when she's throwing fits on the floor of a store or screaming just to get a reaction- I wonder if you would look at me with judgement or if you would laugh at how difficult my own daughter turned out since I wasn't exactly the easiest kid in the world.

I'm getting married in September. I asked someone else to walk down the aisle in your place. I don't think you'd be offended by this though. She has helped me through so much over the years. She has walked next to me, reprimanded me, picked me up when I fell, and held my hand when I needed someone. She is the closest thing to having you here that I have ever had in my life. I know that makes me one of the lucky ones. Having her in my life has been the biggest blessing. I will still leave a seat open for you at my wedding. She will never replace you. And our years lost will haunt me for the rest of my life. I will probably still cry knowing that we won't have that mother-daughter talk the day of my wedding. You won't play with my vail for tell me I look beautiful or that you're proud of who I've become. But I will leave a seat open, so that it's known you're watching that day. You can't put your arms around me, or brush back my hair, but I know in my heart you'll be there.

Twenty-three years. Not a single day goes by that I don't think about you, mom. I love you. I can't wait for you to watch me get married.

grief
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About the Creator

Michelle Schultz

I'm mostly an editorial writer. I love to share my opinions and experiences. I don't hold back and I swear so if you take offense easily, my articles probably aren't for you. I'm a single mom just trying to stay sane.

@loreleismom

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