The night that she died, she was in my arms. We were in the hospital bed. We both knew this was the end—all the months of pain, the endless treatments, the medication. Every hour I spent taking care of her was for the smallest chance that she might get to see another day.

That whole night, we stayed intertwined in that small, stiff hospital bed. She caressed my hair and whispered memories from when I was a child. She talked about how happy she was with the life she lived. In that moment, it felt like things were fine—like maybe, somehow, she could miraculously heal. But we both knew the truth.

I spent my part apologizing, begging, loving. I spent my part regretting. I kept looking at her, then the clock, back and forth, praying for just one more day. I begged her not to sleep, knowing that once she did, it would happen. She HAD to die, and I couldn’t understand why.

She held me as I cried against her chest, like a child, sobbing and pleading with the universe to trade our places. Then she went cold.

I looked at her. And I realized—this was it. She had left.

I was sixteen, lying in that cold, cramped hospital bed, holding my mother’s lifeless body, wishing for a different world.

The day of the funeral, I was surrounded by people offering their condolences. As sweet as they tried to be, I was bitter. I rejected their help. I wanted to be alone. The worst part was the strangers—people who didn’t even know her—standing up and speaking for her. Speaking about who she was, like they could ever understand.

I ran out of the church and kicked over a trash can. I fell to my knees, sobbing, screaming silently to the sky: “Mom, I wish things were different.” “Mom, I wish I’d shown you how much I loved you.” “Mom… you were everything.”

When they buried her, it felt like a seal. This was final. No countdowns, no approximations, no hovering uncertainty—just an undeniable fact. She was gone.

After everyone left, I stayed behind. I knelt in front of her grave, pressing my head against the cold tombstone, hugging it like I could somehow feel her warmth again. I clawed at the dirt, burying my hands in the grass like I could dig her out. I knew she wasn’t there, but I couldn’t accept that she was really gone.

She would never see me walk down the aisle to the song I’d told her about since I was a kid. She would never meet the people I promised to introduce her to in college. She would never see me graduate high school.

And I hated her for that.

Even though it wasn’t her fault, I hated it.

It was easier to point fingers, to be bitter, to blame the universe, God, or fate. Even if, deep down, I knew there was no one to blame.