35

35

I used to look forward to this birthday. 35 was supposed to be my year—mine and Samson’s. He was going to turn 18 in just a few months. I had always imagined what this year would look like: the year my son became an adult.

Instead of celebrating, I’m sitting in the tub, crying all morning. I wish I could escape. I wish I could run away from this world and find Samson.

How do you celebrate when the person you want to celebrate with isn’t here? Nothing feels right anymore, and I don’t know if it ever will again. How could it, when my heart was ripped out of my chest the day Samson died?

What I wouldn’t give to celebrate with him today.

Since Samson’s death, it feels like everything has fallen apart. The world is quieter now—empty and hollow. Every moment feels like a reminder of what’s missing.

Grief changes you in ways you don’t expect. It makes your heart brash, brittle, and unrecognizable. I’ve been stuck in the anger stage for months now. I don’t know if it’s anger at losing Samson, or anger at how cruel family, and those that are supposed to be there for you, have been since he passed. Strangers have shown me more kindness than either if our families.

That’s what makes this loss even harder. Samson was my anchor, my joy, and my safe place. Without him, our little family feels fractured. Tom and I don’t have a larger family to lean on. It was always just the four of us—Samson, Gabe, Tom, and me. That was my family. (Along with my siblings I pulled under my mother wings) Now, it feels tattered and worn, like a threadbare quilt that can no longer keep out the cold.

And here I am, 35 years old.

35 feels too young for all of this. Too young to lose a child. Too young to take on the role of matriarch in a family that doesn’t feel whole anymore. Too young to carry so much pain.

35. And I don’t want this.

I love you, Samson. More than anything. Bigger than the stars and all the galaxies. I love you to the moon and back.