But it wasn't hard for you.

...like it was for me.

And that makes me… angry.

— It’s been fourteen years, and yet, I still feel my gut and throat tighten anytime I think about what happened.

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Maybe I need to book another appointment with my therapist?

I feel like I’ve done the work — I’ve been doing the work for years now.

As if thinking about it — living it, isn’t hard enough already? Why the fuck do I have to turn it upside down, inside out?

What if I just want to be...angry?

I think I’m allowed.

After all, I’ve been such a buttoned-up, good girl for so fucking long. Just like my family raised me to be. Maybe it’s time I rip the filter right off, apologize to my ancestors, and unleash everything I truly feel all over everyone and everything.

Unapologetically.

Make a scene.

But what’s the use? What good will that do?

So I’ll continue on, as I always do. Shoulders and chin up.

Though underneath it all, I’m just a girl longing for a hug from her parents.

And every morning, I’ll wake up and draw that smile on my face.

---

In 2007, we lived in a small back-split in Ajax, a suburban town in Ontario, Canada. It was a blessing, and I was grateful for it every day.

Prior to that, I was raised in a rougher part of Scarborough—apartments filled mostly with low-income families, and immigrants — just like us. I’ll never forget taking the elevator to the 21st floor, on 5 Brockley Drive, after the school bus dropped me off. It was always a mixed bag—you never knew what you’d get. A homeless man passed out in the lobby, or a vandalized or shattered window. Some days, I had to carefully avoid my neighbor, an elderly woman who mostly kept to herself. Harmless, for the most part. But sometimes, she wandered the halls with a knife, just…waving it around at nothing, singing softly to herself (she sang to the pigeons on the balcony, too!). I always wondered — what if that was the day she snapped?

I played enough video games, to know how to dodge a threat.

We finally moved out when I was 16. I remember my father working tirelessly, making round trips as a long-distance trucker to save enough money for a down payment on a house. My mother worked, too, holding a humble job at Zellers, a Canadian version of Target. Earning just enough for food and extra expenses. Despite our simple means, she had a way of turning a small apartment tucked away on the top floor of a high-rise building, into a home—simple yet cozy.

It truly felt like home.

One thing I’ll never forget, is that despite not having a lot of money. She always made sure we had a clean home, delicious home-cooked meals, and an endless source of love in her heart. She was always beautiful, too. She didn’t have to do much — she just was. She carried herself with grace, had a warm smile, kind eyes. Her soul emanated through her body and everything about her was beautiful.

Everyone agreed.

Some people said she looked like Princess Diana, I loved that — she did, too.

I especially loved her hands. When I was little, I would just…ask to hold them. Study them. And wonder—was she a magician? Surely, a Disney princess, or a queen, the super-loving kind. How could so much love pour from her hands? They healed sadness with a simple touch, or hug. They made the most comforting meals, folded endless piles of laundry, cleaned tirelessly, carried heavy bags of groceries. Prayed countless prayers—they worked so hard.

And they were beautiful, too. Her nails, always perfectly manicured, even without fancy polish. Princess nails, I thought, proving my point—she was royalty.

I would press her hands against my face, nestling my head into her hip, feeling safe, protected, and oh-so-very loved.

Everything about her embodied beauty, selflessness, love, and kindness.

An earth angel, if I’ve ever seen one.

---

I was 19 the summer she died.

How she died is one thing. But how the grief crept in, sinking its claws into me for years after—that’s another story entirely.

The months following my mothers death, were especially lonely. The kind of loneliness that echoes, wraps around you and doesn’t let go.

---

That fall marked my second year at Ryerson University. Every day, I took the train downtown Toronto. The season was changing—leaves falling, evenings growing darker and colder. The damp sidewalks that led me home felt like a passage, guiding me through the familiar, dimly lit catwalk.

On the other side, was our home. The house I used to dream about as a kid—finally, we were in a safe neighborhood.

We finally belonged.

A home I could invite my friends over to…without feeling ashamed of my postal code.

Every summer, I helped mom plant white and red Geraniums, in abundance. They wrapped around the front of our house like a feathered boa. Even when the season changed and leaves scattered around the front yard, I used to eagerly anticipate the sight of our home, its warm glowing windows. Mom would be in the kitchen, cooking something delicious, her efforts timed perfectly to my arrival. And the familiar, “How was school today?” as her warm eyes beamed in my direction.

But now, as I reached the same house at the end of the catwalk — the glow was gone. The flower beds were empty. The windows dark, and drawn. The kitchen silent. No light on to welcome my arrival, no warm meals to come home to. The soul that turned a house into a home, was gone. It was dark, cold, and empty. The memories from before, echoing like ghosts in my mind.

—Cue: Nobody’s Home by Avril Lavigne. It’s like she wrote that song just for me.

Sometimes, I’d open the linen closet just to breathe in the familiar scent of the towels and sheets. They carried her memory, of how she would carefully place freshly washed sheets on our beds and towels in the bathrooms—simple yet profound tokens of her love.

On the loneliest days — I’d muster the courage to brave her closet. Wrapping myself in her sweaters and dresses, I’d close my eyes, curl up on the floor and cry. Soaking in the faint traces of her perfume. Pretending the softness of the fabric were her arms, cradling me, as I eagerly willed her to come back.

Maybe if I cry hard enough, she’ll hear me and come back…

My dad was still working, gone for weeks on end. Likely trying to keep his mind occupied on the wide-open roads somewhere in the southern US. He called me daily. I always told him I was fine, busy with studies—but that was a lie.

When I asked how he was, his voice would break. With the same response every time.

“My sweet child, she’s gone. A piece of my heart and soul are gone.”

“You’re all I have left.”

…

I’d take a deep breath and tell him we’d get through it together.

— but that, too, was a lie.

We’d get through it, yes—but only for a moment.

Before he left, too.

And so began my trauma response: pretending I’m okay.

---

My brother wasn’t around much. With his wedding approaching, he spent most of his nights either with his fiancée, or working to pay off the debt from mom’s medical bills.

I kept the house impeccably clean, as if staying on top of my chores could somehow make it feel like nothing had changed.

Maybe some part of me thought she would miraculously come home one day. Walk in through the front door. Rejuvenated and restored. Back from a well-deserved retreat.

Cancer-free.

Sometimes, after dusting, cleaning every surface, and mopping the floors, the sun would begin to set. I would stand there, in the middle of the living room, watching the golden light spill across the freshly cleaned hardwood floors.

Clutching the mop as if it could somehow offer me solace, thinking —

“Mom, look how nicely I cleaned the house.

It’s perfect. *shifting my attention to the glistening kitchen tiles*

If you happen to come home soon… It’ll be just how you had it.

You won’t have to do much. I promise. You’ll be able to relax — finally.

I can make you something really nice (I wish I had the chance to do that…)

A nice meal. Baked with white wine. And herbs.

Or Polish chicken soup — just how you made it.

You taught me how, remember? I promise, I paid attention. I remembered it all.

I’m doing just fine — see?

I’m picking up where you left off…

I’ll keep things moving around here…

You can rest now…

I can do this.”

…

With a heavy heart and tears welling up in my eyes…

Who was I even cleaning this for?

I put away the mop, microwaved my leftovers, lit a single candle, and took the seat opposite hers at our little round kitchen table. The sound of my cutlery echoed through the empty house, a stark contrast to the laughter we once shared here. Those moments—now just memories, fragments of another timeline, lost somewhere in the past.

— We eventually sold the Ajax house. And with it, the last remnants of what we had built together as a family. If you ask me, that was the day we held the final service, the day we laid her essence to rest. And with it, the love, the memories, everything we had worked so hard to cultivate. What we once held so dear.

A time where we once belonged.

An echo of the family we were.

---

And maybe it was hard for you, too.

Maybe you understand the complexity of deep loss at a young age. In your own way, in your own context.

Maybe you, too, know what it’s like to claw at the earth, desperate to keep the people you love tethered to this world. Hoping the world doesn’t spin too fast— pulling them away…leaving you behind.

With the memories… and the longing to pour love into them.

Like they did — into you.

Maybe it was hard for you, too.

Maybe it still is. My heart understands that kind of hurt.

That kind of loneliness.

The familiar sting from the past will come and go.

But don’t close your heart entirely. Believe me, it’ll hurt more if you do. I’ve tried it and it broke me. More than I could have ever imagined.

Don’t close off your heart.

Don’t allow the pain you’ve experienced to harden your heart. To close it from the opportunity for someone to see, even a glimpse, of what your heart has to offer.

To share that kind of love with the world. And for it to be shared with you.

Because I know… even a glimpse into your kind of heart. Is something so special, tender, resilient and beautiful. Cracks and all.

It might not be okay now. But it will be.

It might not be okay now. But it will be.

You will belong again.

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Okay everyone…ugly cry with me in the comments :’)

If this hit home or stirred some feelings up for you. Please share.

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