This is my first Mother’s Day without her.

And still, I reach for the phone.

It’s in the quiet victories—the kind of good news she’d appreciate, not because it was flashy, but because it meant I was doing okay. I catch myself thinking, Mom would want to know this. Or She’d be proud of this one. And then I remember: I can’t tell her.

Grief is not always heavy. Sometimes, it’s just an empty space where a call used to go. A pause in my day when I think of her face, her voice, her way of always answering even if she didn’t say much. She wasn’t what people would call “warm,” not in the way of soft words or long hugs. But she was reliable. Strong. The kind of strong that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that just keeps going, day after day, because no one else is going to do it for you.

She raised us alone. No child support. No partner to share the weight. Just grit and pride and the fierce belief that her children deserved something better, even if it meant she’d go without. We didn’t have much—not by the world’s standards. But we had her. And we had Christmas.

I still remember how she lit up for the holidays, how she’d stretch her savings across every corner of December to make magic out of thin air. The woman who pinched pennies all year long would pour every last dime into a morning of torn wrapping paper and wide eyes. It wasn’t about the gifts. It was about giving—about proving that love could be wrapped, even if it was quiet the rest of the year.

She never said “I love you” much. But she showed it. In school lunches packed before sunrise. In clothes mended and handed down. In working overtime and still making it to the game, the recital, the parent-teacher night. In every “be careful,” in every “did you eat?” there was a whole world of love, even if it didn’t come tied with a bow.

And now she’s gone.

But in many ways, she isn’t. She’s in the way I keep going when I’m tired. She’s in the way I hold back tears when life demands strength. She’s in the way I still scan the aisles for something she’d like, only to remember I no longer need to buy it.

She was tough. But she was ours. And she never quit on us.

This Mother’s Day, I won’t be sending flowers. I won’t be getting a card. But I will be remembering. I will be hearing her voice in my head as I wash the dishes—half a warning, half a joke. I’ll be thinking about the sacrifices she made that I didn’t understand until adulthood. I’ll be holding space for both the hardness and the heart of who she was.

She didn’t ask for praise. She didn’t expect thanks. But I hope, somehow, she knows:

That I noticed.
That I remember.
That even now, she’s still the first person I want to share good news with.

Because love doesn’t have to be soft to be real. Sometimes, it’s steel and calloused hands. Sometimes, it’s a tired woman wrapping Christmas presents late at night after her third shift. Sometimes, it’s a life of doing what had to be done, without asking anyone to notice.

Well, I noticed, Mom.

And this first Mother’s Day without you is hard.

But I’ll carry you forward. In work. In resilience. In the quiet strength I never knew I got from you—until I had to use it.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
I wish I could call you.

But somehow, I think you already know.