the month she was everywhere
December was the month I missed my mum the most.
I knew the waves were coming. I could feel them building long before they hit. We went to Spain to try and stay ahead of them, to put sun and distance between me and the shape of the month. It helped. And it didn’t.
Just before my husband’s birthday, I broke down.
The kind where everything you’ve been holding finally gives way and you realise how tired you are from carrying it. I had to put myself back together slowly after that. Carefully. Piece by piece. There was no rushing December.
I hosted the Christmas Eve party like we do every year. Familiar faces. Familiar noise. Tradition doing what it does best, holding things in place when emotions won’t.
Christmas Day was quiet. We built Lego. We didn’t get dressed. It was all too big for now. The day belonged to the kids and that was enough. I let it be small.
Boxing Day was quieter still. Just family. And the space where she should have been. Her absence louder without the distraction of plans or hosting.
What filled that space surprised me.
Not just sadness.
But guilt.
And resentment.
The ache of what she wasn’t able to give. The love I wanted that never came cleanly. The complicated weight of missing someone who also hurt you.
I wonder if it will be this bitter next year.
I don’t know yet.
December didn’t offer comfort.
It offered honesty.
And for now, that’s what I’m sitting with.
