My Mom
The Morning My Mother Died
Some anniversaries don’t sit quietly.
They knock at 5:00 a.m.
Eleven years ago today, I woke up because of a loud sound. It wasn’t subtle. It was the kind of noise that pulls you out of sleep instantly, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
I remember opening my eyes and noticing the hallway lights were on.
I thought, Oh, mami is awake.
That was normal. She was always up early. I didn’t think anything of it. I rolled back over.
When I woke up again around 8 a.m., it was just a regular day in my head. I had a nail appointment. My friend Lauren was downstairs waiting for me at the door. I grabbed my son, because I used to lay him next to my mom while I ran errands. That was our routine.
I opened her bedroom door.
And everything changed.
She was on the floor. Unresponsive.
My mother died on me.
There are moments in life that split time in half.
Before.
After.
That was mine.
We Were Not a “Normal” Mother and Daughter
My relationship with my mom wasn’t typical. We weren’t distant. We weren’t cold. We weren’t just mother and daughter.
We were two peas in a pod.
I was her youngest. I was spoiled, yes. But not in a careless way. In a “you are my heart walking outside my body” way. She protected me. She adored me. She confided in me. She made me feel seen.
She was my best friend.
And yet… the world didn’t see her the way I did.
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