Every year, like clockwork, Facebook memories remind me of this day at 6 a.m. It’s a notification I dread, a piercing reminder of one of the darkest, most unbearable days of my life. The day I lost my mom. I was 28 years old, and I had to say goodbye to the woman who gave me life, who fought so hard but ultimately lost her battle with cancer.
I remember it all like it happened five minutes ago. It’s burned into my mind. It was me, my sister Diana, my stepbrothers Ryan and Chad, my Aunt Tia, my sister-in-law at the time, and my cousins. We were all there, huddled together in the living room, sitting on the floor at the foot of my mom’s hospital bed. She had been unconscious for two days. We couldn’t bring ourselves to leave her alone, not even for a second. The house was thick with silence, suffocating, but we tried to fill it with laughter and shared memories. We talked about Mom; her stories, her quirks, and the trouble we got into over the years. We clung to those moments, desperately trying to hold on to her in any way we could.
And then, my stepdad, Joe, stumbled in. He reeked of whiskey and cigarettes, as if death wasn’t enough of a stench in the room. Mom was lying there, her body frail and lifeless on her deathbed, and he couldn’t even stay sober for this. Just five minutes. That’s all it would’ve taken. He leaned over her, placed his hand on her chest, and in his slurred voice announced to us that she was gone. Just like that. He told us she had taken her last breath.
My sister stood up, trembling and shouting, questioning if he was drunk or if it was true. Her voice broke in desperation. I stood frozen, waiting—praying—that somehow she’d tell us it wasn’t real. But then, tears began pouring down her face, and she confirmed what we already knew but couldn’t bring ourselves to accept. Mom was gone.
I broke down, collapsing into my sister as we both sobbed uncontrollable. It felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me, and all I could do was hold on to her. My aunt wrapped her arms around us, her own tears streaming, trying to comfort us, even as she mourned the loss of her sister.
And then, amidst the chaos of grief, I glanced over and saw my daughter, Leila. She was just five years old. Her tiny frame stood in the corner, her eyes wide and confused, trying to make sense of what was happening. She was trying to understand what death was—what it meant—but I could see she didn’t fully grasp it. In that moment, a wave of guilt consumed me. I had forgotten she was even there. I was so lost in my pain, in my role as a grieving daughter, that I had failed to be a mother.
I didn’t know how to be a mom while I was losing mine.
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