In the Middle of Missing Her

There are these quiet moments that catch me off guard, even though by now I should expect them.

Like the photo on the wall by my bedroom door. It sits right at eye level, so I don’t even have to try to see her. I pass it every morning when I’m still half awake, and every night when I’m tired enough to just crawl into bed and be done with the day. Most of the time I let myself glance and keep moving, because I’ve learned that if I linger too long, it can unravel more than I’m ready to carry in that moment.

But sometimes I don’t get to choose.

Sometimes I slow down as I’m walking by, like something in me has already decided that I’m not going to make it through untouched. I stop in the doorway and look at her face, and everything else in the house fades into the background for a second. Without really thinking about it, I reach out and press my fingers against the glass where her cheek is, tracing it gently as if that could somehow close the distance between where she is and where I am. I know I’m touching a frame, and I know she isn’t there, but there is still something in me that expects to feel warmth.

Haven, you were really here.

I don’t always say her name out loud in that moment, but it lives right there at the surface, like it is always one breath away from being spoken. I stand there longer than I mean to, long enough for my chest to tighten and my throat to start burning, and I can feel the edge of tears that I know will take more from me than I have to give right then. So eventually I pull myself away and keep moving, even though the feeling doesn’t actually leave with me.

There are other moments, quieter ones that no one sees. Sometimes I stop at her urn and rest my hand on it for a few seconds, longer than I would if it were anything else. In my mind, I am holding her. I am pulling her into me, tucking her close, giving her the kind of hug and cuddle that never got to happen but still feels deeply wired into me as her mom. It is not something I plan or even think through; it just happens, like my body is trying to finish something that was interrupted.

And in those moments, I sometimes let myself lean just a little too far into it. I let myself picture the room as it is, but with her in it. Not in a detailed or imagined way where I try to create a full version of her, but just enough to feel the shift of her presence. It feels close for a second, almost close enough to believe, and there is a part of me that wants to stay there as long as possible.

But I always come back to what is actually in front of me. I don’t even notice the exact moment it happens, only that the room settles back into what it is, and the absence feels heavier because of where my mind just was.

There are moments with my son that feel so full they almost undo me. When he laughs from his belly and it fills the entire room, or when he reaches for me without hesitation, like it is the most natural thing in the world that I am his safe place, I feel this overwhelming love for who he is and who he is becoming. I find myself holding onto him a little longer than I normally would, taking in his expressions, his voice, the small ways he is changing right in front of me.

And alongside all of that, there is this quiet awareness that there is a space in the room that belongs to someone else, too.

It doesn’t take away from him, and it is not something I dwell on long enough to build into anything more, but it is there. It is always there in some small way, woven into moments that are otherwise good and whole.

I talk to God about her in these in-between spaces, usually not in full prayers, but in short, honest thoughts that come as I am moving through the day. I find myself saying that I know she is with Him, that I know He sees her and holds her in a way that I cannot, and I repeat those things because I believe them and because I need to hear them at the same time.

And sometimes, if I am being completely honest, I also tell Him that I know she is with Him, and I still wish He had left her with me.

I do not know how to make those two things sit comfortably together, so I don’t try to resolve them. I just keep bringing them to Him as they are, even when it feels like I am saying the same thing over and over again.

I don’t think people see how often she is part of my day, or how many times I pass that photo and feel something shift in me, or how often my hand reaches for something that is not there. I don’t think people realize what it is like to carry love that does not have a place to go in the ways it was meant to.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk past her again on my way to start my day, and even though I have done it countless times before, I already know that there is a good chance I will slow down, reach out without thinking, and feel it all over again.