Every time the phone rings now, I flinch—some part of me expecting bad news.

MJ is in the Midwest. Sister lives South. And I’m here in the Northwest, feeling the vastness between us—miles and time zones and grief all stacked against me like unscalable walls.

We check in. Broken sentences. Short calls. They ask “how are you doing?” in that careful way people do when they already know the answer.

But how do you explain this kind of emptiness to someone who’s also grieving in their own way, in their own place, with no road map home?

We’ve all scattered. Different beds. The same ache.

Sometimes I want to text them something small—like “I saw a bird outside my window, and it reminded me of Kay” or “do you remember that time we all laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe?”

But I don’t. I don’t want to pull them deeper into the dark just as they’re trying to find their own fragile light.

And maybe that’s what hurts most. This ache we can’t carry for one another.

This Mother’s Day, they’ll be two distant dots on the map, living their own versions of this nightmare. Maybe they’ll light a candle. Maybe they’ll cry in their cars. Maybe they’ll do what I’m doing—sitting silent, afraid to breathe too deeply in case it all comes rushing out.

I should try, I tell myself. For them.

But right now, even trying feels like lying.

The truth is, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this weekend.

I keep hearing people talk about brunch plans, handwritten cards, and breakfast in bed. Tender gestures that used to mean something entirely different to me.

This is the first Mother’s Day without my Kay.

I don’t know what that will look like. I don’t know how it will feel hour by hour. I only know it already hurts.

Everywhere I turn, there are reminders. Storefronts with pink ribbons. Soft music in commercials whispering some version of joy. And then there are the flowers.

It used to be my favorite part. Their wild colors, the way they reached for the light. Kay used to pick the tiny ones growing from sidewalk cracks, her little hands proud of the treasures she’d found.

But now, flowers mean something else.

They mean a casket. A gesture of condolences. A hundred arrangements trying to soften a story that won’t change.

When I think about someone sending me flowers this weekend, I feel sick. Like I might throw up right here and now. As if beauty now lives too close to pain.

And still, MJ and Sister are here. Their eyes asking questions I can’t answer.

They deserve more. A version of me that doesn’t feel broken.

But I don’t know how to give that to them.

Not yet.

I’m trying. That’s all I can say.