This Mother’s Day was altogether different from years past. I woke up alone and overwhelmed with loneliness. While I knew that I was not exactly alone, knowing that I had received everything I was going to get for Mother’s Day already, had a way of making the day feel less joyful. I glanced at the delicate black friendship bracelet that YaYa had made for me the night before and smiled remembering his efforts to relearn how to make it. I knew I was being stupid for feeling sad, yet I couldn’t seem to shake the emotion.

In years past, this day would have been one where I was ordered to remain in bed while my loved ones pulled together coffee and breakfast for me. The intended “surprise” tended to be anything but that, with the kids arguing on the way up the stairs over who would be the one to open the door and who would get to hand me the flowers they’d picked from the garden. I think I got more joy in hearing these conversations than the breakfast and gifts they had for me; nothing beats a son’s heartfelt want to express their love.

Deep down, I know that I have it all wrong. It’s not supposed to be about my children expressing their love for me, it’s supposed to be about how I can express my love for my own mother. The fact that I wanted it both ways was troubling me — and yet for the majority of the day I could not put my finger on the reason why.
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