The Death of My Heart - Part 2

The Death of My Heart – Part 2

The days and weeks after my mom’s passing are only fragments now—glimpses of fog drifting through my memory. I was numb for years.

I do remember the morning after. I woke from a deep sleep to sunlight streaming through the window. Birds were chirping. For two brief minutes, my soul felt well. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it had always been.

Then the knot hit me.

It started in the pit of my stomach, twisting and tightening until the truth rose up like a dark, heavy cloud blocking the sun.

She’s gone.

She’s really gone.

I can’t call her. I can’t see her. I can’t share my thoughts. I can’t ask her for advice. I can’t hug her. I can’t see her beautiful smile. I can’t hear her laughter.

I can’t.

That truth wrapped around me, and a sound came from my mouth I didn’t recognize—raw, guttural weeping that startled even me. I sat in bed crying, moaning, and gasping for what felt like hours.

Eventually, I wiped my face and forced myself to think. There were funeral arrangements to make. Mom’s affairs to put in order. Decisions to be made—what she would wear, what the obituary would say, who would take care of Aunt Gloria, my sisters, Debit. What about her home? Who would make sure it stayed the way Mom liked it?

Everyone was looking to me.

Mom had always been the one to hold it all together. Now she was gone, and I had to step into her shoes. It was expected. It was necessary.

But God… my legs wouldn’t move. My body felt like lead. My hope was gone. Carrying this pain was like dragging a hundred-ton steel chain.

Still, that voice in my head whispered: Make her proud.

I carried that voice for years.

For over sixty years, I tried to walk in shoes that were never meant to fit me. That’s why I’ve always felt this unshakable need to “take care” of my family. It was my way of honoring her, making sure she didn’t have to worry in heaven.

But it’s a heavy load to carry. From whom much is given, much is required.

So I moved through those days like an AI robot—planning the funeral, writing the obituary, finding the money to open the grave, dressing her, doing her makeup, picking the songs, comforting my family.

And it pissed me the hell off.

Why did anyone think I could handle this? Why was I the one to lead this horrific event? Didn’t they see I was dying inside? Didn’t they care I was one step away from falling into the abyss?

No. Of course not. They needed saving, and they needed comfort. They always had. Why would this moment be any different?

So, I did what was expected of me. In public, I played the role flawlessly. In private, I was unraveling—slowly sinking into a personal hell. I was preparing myself for a front-row seat in the devil’s den.

The only thing that kept me physically alive was my children. They were the reason I didn’t swallow a bottle of pills the day after she died.

But for the next ten years, I orchestrated my own slow, ugly, self-destruction—a death so distasteful it shocked even me. And since God and I weren’t speaking, and my mom was in the ground…

Who was going to stop me?