The Gift I Can't Give Her

The sadness pops up everywhere. I keep trying to shove it back into a hole so I can be happy for her birthday, but it won't stay down. It won't stay stuck inside.


It comes out as tears.


It comes out as anger.


It comes out as hurt.


I can't give her what I really want to give her for her birthday.


I can't give her what she really wants for her birthday.


I can't give her her father back.


I'll never be able to give her that gift.


She asks for things I CAN give her and I get angry because I know that's not enough to fill the hole.


I know that THINGS don't fill emptiness.


So we cry.


We hurt.


We hug.


We heal a tiny bit more.


We keep loving each other.


We keep missing him.


We still have that hole.


We probably always will.


That's a hard thing for a mother not to be able to fix for her child.


It's more important that I teach her how to live with the hole than how to fix it, I think.


Healthier, maybe.


More realistic.


Let the raw edges have time to heal. Get stronger. Define us, but not own us.


Like a piercing we'll have forever. Always part of us; not the whole of us.


I wish I knew how to wrap it.


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