4790 Days

The graduation where you’d sit in the front row, tears streaming, holding up that embarrassing sign with my baby pictures on it that I’d pretend to hate but secretly treasure.

Your hands teaching mine to knead dough at 3 AM when I couldn’t sleep, flour in our hair, sharing secrets that only kitchens at midnight can hold.

The fights we’d have about curfews and boyfriends, slamming doors that we’d both regret by dinner, then laughing until we cried over some stupid inside joke that made everything okay again.

Your arms around me the first time someone broke my heart completely, not saying a word, just breathing with me until the world felt possible again.

Dancing at my wedding, your eyes bright with pride and that specific sadness mothers carry when their children grow wings, whispering “I love you” into my veil.

Meeting your grandchildren, watching you become the soft place they’d run to, teaching them the songs you sang to me, your voice cracking with too much love.

Growing old together, our hands both wrinkled now, comparing medications and laughing about forgetting where we put our glasses while they hang around our necks.

Holding your hand as you take your last breath, thanking you for everything—for scraped knees kissed better, for believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself, for being the safe harbor I could always return to.

All of this I wished I could have done with you, but I only got 4790 days with you—

and now I count every single one I have left without you.