Hi babe,
Mother’s Day feels different now. Quieter. Heavier. There’s an ache in every beautiful thing because you should still be here with us. But even through the heartbreak, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for you today.
Thank you for our beautiful blessings.
Thank you for making me a mother. For giving me pieces of you that still run through this house every single day — in their laughter, their eyes, their stubbornness, their softness, and the way they love so deeply. I see you in all of them. I always will.
You loved us so fiercely, Derek. There was never a moment we questioned where your heart belonged. It belonged to your family. To your babies. To me. To your mom. You carried all of us with such strength and devotion, and I need you to know that I will spend the rest of my life honoring that love.
I will love our family as fiercely as you did.
I will protect them at all costs, the same way you always protected us. I will speak your name often so our children never forget the kind of man their father was — hardworking, loyal, protective, funny, loving, and completely devoted to the people he cared about. I’ll make sure they grow up knowing they were loved by an incredible father long before they could ever understand loss.
And I promise to love your mom fiercely too. To stand beside her through this unbearable grief the same way you would have wanted me to. She gave this world the greatest love I’ve ever known, and I will never stop being thankful for that.
Some days I feel too broken to carry all of this, but then I remember you. The way you showed up for us every single day. The way you loved without hesitation. And somehow, even now, you still give me strength.
I miss you in every moment, babe. In the loud chaos of parenting alone and in the quiet moments after everyone falls asleep. I miss the life we were building together. I miss being loved by you.
But I promise you this: As long as I am here, your love will continue to live through this family.
Forever your babe.
My love,
You were my favorite chapter.
The kind of chapter that leaves the corners of the pages folded down because no matter how many times I read it, I cannot stop returning to it just to feel close to you again. The chapter filled with warmth, laughter, chaos, safety, and a love so consuming that even now it feels unreal that I was lucky enough to live it beside you.
Sometimes in the quiet moments, when the house settles and the world grows still, I sit with our memories the way someone rereads their favorite story. Slowly. Carefully. As if I have never heard it before. I replay the sound of your laugh, the way your hands felt in mine, the little things you said without realizing they would one day become sacred pieces of me. And every time, I think the same thing: this had to have been the greatest love story of all time.
Because how could a love this deep not be?
Life keeps moving around me. The days continue whether I am ready for them to or not. People keep turning pages, starting new chapters, finding ways to move forward. But me? I am still back on the chapter of us. Still tracing the lines of your name with trembling fingers. Still rereading every moment trying to keep the details alive before grief steals another piece of them away.
I live in that chapter now.
The chapter where you existed beside me. The chapter where forever still sounded believable. The chapter where home was simply wherever you were.
And maybe that is why losing you hurts the way it does. Because our chapter was never ordinary. It was the kind people spend lifetimes searching for and never find. You gave me a love so beautiful that even the ending cannot take away what it was.
So I keep returning to those pages, babe.
Over and over again.
Because for a little while, when I close my eyes and remember us, I can still feel what it was like to be loved by you.
Babe, I was so naive to believe that when you said forever, it was guaranteed.
I held onto that word like it was something solid… something unbreakable. Like no matter what happened in this world, we were safe inside it. I trusted it because I trusted you. Because of the way you loved me, the way you showed up, the way you made forever feel real.
And now I sit here realizing forever didn’t mean what I thought it did.
Not because you lied… but because life did.
Because something so permanent was taken from me in the most temporary, fragile way. One moment you were here, saying forever, building a life with me… and the next, I’m left holding onto a word that feels so empty without you here to live it with me.
I hate that I still believe in our forever.
I hate that my heart didn’t get the chance to prepare for a world where you don’t exist in it the same way.
I hate that I’m still loving you like you’re coming back.
Because to me… forever was never supposed to look like this.
But even through all of this… I can’t let go of you. I don’t want to.
Because if this is what forever became… then I’ll carry it.
Even if it breaks me a little more every day.
I love you. Always.
Your forever babe.
Hi babe,
It’s been three months.
Half of our baby girl’s life, you’ve had your wings.
The weight of this loss is unbearable. It’s changed me… shaped me into someone I don’t even recognize. Someone I don’t like. And I catch myself thinking you wouldn’t like her either.
I’ve been watching myself lose what little spark I had left, on top of losing you… and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face. The part of me that felt alive died the day you did, and I don’t know how to find her again.
Every day I wake up heavier than the one before. More tired.
Hope feels so far away. Joy feels forced.
I barely recognize the person I’ve become.
The hardest part is seeing it happen… and being too exhausted to stop it.
Like I’m slowly breaking my own heart over and over again.
They say time heals this… but that feels like a lie.
Still, I look into our babies’ eyes and I keep going.
For them. For you.
Maybe one day I’ll find myself again.
Maybe one day I’ll feel like someone you’d be proud of.
I love you endlessly.
Forever your babe.
Hi babe.
Every day I wake up more exhausted than the one before. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes—this is deeper. It sits in my bones, in my chest, in the quiet moments when everything feels too heavy to carry.
I walk from room to room, trying to keep moving, trying to keep it together… but I can’t. The tears come no matter what I do. I try so hard to hide it from the kids, to be the version of me they deserve—but Ben still hears me. From across the house he calls out, “Mom, I can still hear you crying,” and it breaks me all over again.
I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to be this person, in this life, that we were never supposed to live alone. Everything feels unfamiliar. Even home doesn’t feel like home without you in it.
I’m lost, babe. Completely lost.
But I’m still here. For them. For us. Carrying what’s left of our life forward the only way I know how—one broken step at a time.
I miss you in everything. Always.
Your forever babe.
Hi babe,
I’ve gone quiet because I don’t even know where to put all of this anymore.
I feel like I’m just existing… not living.
There’s this constant pull inside me, like I just want to go home—but my home isn’t here anymore. It’s you. And you’re somewhere I can’t reach yet. That’s the part that’s breaking me the most.
I’m so lost without you. I still find myself searching for you in everything.
In the silence. In the chaos. In every moment that used to be ours.
People keep telling me I’m strong… but I don’t feel strong.
I feel fragile. Like I could shatter at any second.
You were the light that pulled me out of the dark, and without you… it’s darker than I’ve ever known.
I don’t want to do this life without you.
But I will… because of our babies.
That’s the hardest part—trying to be what they need while feeling like I’m barely holding myself together. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the version of me they deserve again.
They say one day I won’t be in survival mode…
but right now, surviving is all I have.
I lived for us. For the life we built.
And now so much of my purpose feels like it disappeared with you.
I wish I told you more—how much I needed you.
You knew I loved you… but I don’t think you knew that my heart beat the way it did because of you.
I miss you in every way a person can miss someone.
Send me a sign that you hear me… today, tomorrow, always.
I love you endlessly.
Your forever babe
Hi babe,
It has been quite the week and weekend.
Benjamin was out sick from school Wednesday through Friday. Caught those kindergarten germs, just like you would say with that little shake of your head. But by Saturday he felt good enough for baseball practice. You would have loved it. He did so good—especially throwing the ball. The coaches even chose him as the pitcher. I was so proud of him in that moment, and I know you would have been too.
Adam took Cameron riding at Club Moto on Saturday. While the hole in my heart will never be filled, my heart felt a little fuller knowing he was out there getting to shred that track. Adam even sent me a picture of him on a 450. That’s a lot of bike for that boy… but he’s growing up so fast into such a beautiful young man. So much of that is because of the things you taught him and the way you raised him.
As for your baby girl… she caught those kindergarten germs from Ben and she’s really struggling. It breaks my heart seeing her so sick. There was a moment today when she was struggling to breathe so much that I panicked. In that moment all I wanted was you—your calm voice, your steady way of handling things, your advice on how to make it better.
The closest thing I could do was call your mom. She didn’t hesitate. She was the shoulder I needed in that moment. I’m so grateful for her and the love and support she continues to shower us with.
We miss you, babe.
It’s not just the big milestones. It’s the quiet, ordinary moments in between. The everyday things. You filled such a big space in our lives, and your absence is loud.
It still doesn’t even feel real. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and remind myself all over again.
So please… meet me in my dreams tonight.
Maybe then the ache of waking up and seeing your side of the bed empty won’t hurt quite so much.
Forever your babe.
Hi babe,
Even on the brightest days the darkness still finds me. It doesn’t knock or ask permission. It just wraps itself around my chest and reminds me that you’re gone.
I walk around carrying this grief like a second body. Heavy. Constant. Unavoidable. Some days I fight it. Other days I let it take me under because it’s the only place I still feel close to you.
People call it grief, but I know what it really is.
It’s love.
Love that had a place to go for so many years and suddenly has nowhere to land. So it sits in my chest and aches and spills out in quiet moments when the world keeps moving like nothing happened.
One day maybe this grief and I will learn to walk beside each other instead of it dragging me through the day. But right now it holds me in its arms the way you used to, and some days that’s the only thing carrying me forward.
I miss you in a way words will never be big enough to hold.
Forever yours.
Hi babe,
Your boy started T-ball yesterday. Watching him step out onto that field for the first time filled my heart in two completely different ways. I was so proud of him — the way he smiled, the way he ran around out there like he owned the whole field. He absolutely loved it. But sitting there without you beside me hurt in a way I can’t quite explain. Another first we were supposed to experience together.
Your mom and Hilda came with me to cheer him on. They stood beside me and helped hold me up in those quiet moments when the weight of missing you crept in. I kept catching myself wanting to turn and make a comment to you, the way we always would at the kids’ games. It’s strange how the smallest habits make your absence feel so loud.
It’s crazy to think that we can’t see you anymore, yet somehow we can still feel you everywhere. And I imagine for you it must be the opposite — you can see us, every moment, every milestone, every little step your babies take as they grow. I hold on to that thought more than anything.
There will never be a silver lining to losing you. Nothing could ever make that kind of loss make sense. But the one thing that brings me comfort is believing you’re still watching them grow, still proud of them, still loving us the same way you always did.
We miss you more than words can hold. Somehow each day the ache grows deeper instead of softer.
Tomorrow we’ll look for you again — in the sunrise, and in the sunset.
With all the love in the world,
Your forever babe.
Babe,
Today is your two-month angelversary, and somehow it feels like it’s been five years and five seconds all at once.
The weight I’ve carried since the day you left is so heavy. Some days it presses on my chest so hard I don’t know how I’m still standing. If this is what two months feels like, I can’t imagine what the rest of the year will hold.
I stood in the sun today arranging flowers at your grave. I felt the warmth on my skin — almost comforting — but inside I was still so numb. How can the world keep turning? How can the sun still shine when you were taken so soon?
I’ve asked God that question a thousand times. Why? How? Why you? Why us? I know there aren’t answers that would ever satisfy my heart. I know this world holds pain we can’t make sense of. But I find the smallest thread of comfort believing He was there with you in your final moments. That you weren’t alone. That you were held when I couldn’t hold you.
And when I pray now, I ask for something that probably sounds impossible — that when we meet again, we meet at eighteen. So in whatever comes next, I get my whole life with you. Every year. Every wrinkle. Every ordinary Tuesday. I want the lifetime we were robbed of.
My love has nowhere to go. It just sits here in my chest, overflowing, with no place to land. So until I see you again, I’ll carry it. I’ll guard it. I’ll hold onto every memory, every laugh, every piece of you.
And when I finally get to you again, I will give you all the love I’ve been saving.
Forever yours.
Babe,
Your oldest finally stayed the night.
And for the first time in a while, the house felt a little more complete… but still not whole. There was laughter in the living room again, another pair of shoes by the door, another voice calling out from the kitchen. It felt good. It felt right. But it still felt like something — someone — was missing.
We watched a movie and ate Hawaiian BBQ. Cameron tried to get me to eat Musubi… you would have loved that. I couldn’t do it. He laughed during the movie and it stopped me in my tracks. It was your laugh. The same sound. The same spark. And for a split second, it knocked the wind out of me because it felt like you were right there.
Thank you for showing up in those moments. In the laughs. In the familiar tones. In the pieces of you that live on in them.
I see you. I feel you. Even if I can’t touch you.
But I’d still trade the world — every single thing in it — just for one more minute with you here. One more hug. One more “hey babe.” One more ordinary night that wasn’t missing you.
We love you. Always.
Babe,
I’m losing it.
Being a single parent is so hard. The house is loud and silent at the same time. Everyone showed up in the beginning… and then they slowly went back to their lives. I don’t blame them. The world keeps spinning. But I feel so alone in it. And you know me — I don’t ask for help. I never have. Now I’m standing here trying to carry what was always meant for two people.
I truly can’t fathom how I get through the days. It has to be you. It has to be the strength you’re sending from above because some mornings I wake up already empty. I think about you every second of every day. I don’t ever want that to stop. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
My heart breaks with each sunrise. Another day without you. And when the sun sets, the darkness wraps around me and I feel it all over again. The quiet. The weight. The forever of it.
I’m so tired of the clichés.
“You’re so strong.”
“You’re going to get through this.”
“Derek would want you to be happy.”
I didn’t choose to be strong. I don’t want to be strong. I’m strong because I have no other option. Of course I’m going to get through it — I have our babies. But getting through it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell right now. And who knows what you would want? Maybe you’d want me to scream and cry and let it rip through me. Maybe you’d just want me to survive. I don’t know.
God, I am tired. Exhausted to my core. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.
Send me strength, Derek. Please.
Wrap me up when it gets too heavy.
Stand behind me when I feel like I’m about to fall.
For our babies, I will always push through. I will always show up. I will always fight.
I just have to do it missing you.
It’s been 50 days.
Fifty days since the world split in two.
Fifty days since I became someone I never asked to be.
Fifty days of waking up and remembering all over again.
I miss you in ways that don’t even make sense.
I miss the weight of you next to me in bed.
I miss the sound of your keys in the door.
I miss the way you’d walk into a room and it instantly felt safe.
I miss the ordinary. The boring. The every day.
I miss having someone to text when something small happens.
I miss the way you’d look at me like I was your whole world.
People say time moves forward.
But it doesn’t feel like it’s moving for me.
It feels like I’m standing still while everything else keeps going.
Fifty days of learning how to breathe with a hole in my chest.
Fifty days of pretending I’m stronger than I feel.
Fifty days of longing so deep it physically aches.
I don’t just miss you.
I long for you.
For your voice.
For your hands.
For one more hug that lasts longer than it should.
I would give anything — anything — to rewind to one ordinary Tuesday when I didn’t know what was coming. To one more kiss goodbye. To one more “I love you”.
Fifty days without you feels impossible.
And somehow I’m still here.
But God, I wish you were too.
I wear your shirts
not because they fit
but because they still hold
the shape of you.
The cotton hangs off my shoulders
like your arms used to.
It smells like the life we had.
I leave a few things in the hamper
longer than I should.
Just so I can wash them.
Just so there is still
your laundry to fold.
It’s a small lie I let myself live in —
that you’re just late,
that you’ll need this tomorrow,
that I’m still your babe
doing the ordinary things.
Grief is strange like that.
It lets me borrow normalcy
from a pile of clothes
that no longer belong
to a living man.
I miss the sound of your keys in the door.
That small metallic jingle
that meant
you’re home.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t grand.
But it split the evening in two —
before you
and after you walked in.
I still catch myself listening for it.
Holding my breath at seven o’clock
like my body hasn’t learned
what my heart already knows.
I miss pulling into the driveway
and seeing the garage door open,
light spilling out onto the concrete,
you bent over something with grease on your hands,
half-focused,
half-smiling when you heard my car.
The smell of oil and metal.
The rhythm of your tools clinking.
The way you’d wipe your hands on your jeans
before wrapping me up like I was the best part of your day.
Now the garage stays quiet.
Still messy.
Too still.
Like it’s waiting too.
I miss the phone call
right as you were leaving work.
“Need anything?”
Such a simple question.
But it carried so much love.
It said,
I’m thinking of you.
I’m on my way back to us.
I’ve got you.
Now the drives home are silent.
No check-in.
No teasing.
No “I’ll grab it, babe.”
Just the ache riding shotgun.
I miss the small touches.
Your hand sliding to the small of my back
while I stood at the sink.
Your chin resting on my shoulder
while I washed dishes.
That absentminded squeeze of my hip
like you couldn’t walk past me
without claiming me for a second.
Those were the moments
no one sees.
The ordinary seconds
that held our whole world.
I miss your voice.
God, I miss your voice.
The way it could steady me
with just a few words.
The way it filled a room
without trying.
The deep rumble of it
late at night
when everything felt heavy
and you’d say,
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
Your rough hands —
calloused, strong,
proof of how hard you worked
for all of us.
They weren’t soft,
but they were safe.
They held my face like something fragile.
They held my body like something worth protecting.
They held our babies
like something sacred.
Now my hands wash the dishes alone.
They lock the doors alone.
They carry the weight alone.
And the silence
where your keys should be
is the loudest thing in this house.
I would give anything
to hear that jingle again.
To see the garage light on.
To get one more call asking if I need milk.
To feel your hand find me in passing
like it always did.
The world keeps moving.
But my ears are still tuned
to a sound
that isn’t coming back.
And that
is the kind of missing
that never stops.
Babe,
I’ve been thinking about something our sweet boy keeps saying. He tells me he’s scared of the dark. Every night since you left, it’s the same thing. “Mom, I don’t like the dark.” He asks for extra lights. The hallway light. The closet cracked open. The door just so.
But I don’t think it’s the dark.
I think he’s scared of waking up in a world where you aren’t here.
I see it in his eyes when the house gets quiet. When the distractions fade and it’s just him and his thoughts. He never used to be afraid like this. You remember how he would run down the hallway without a single light on? Brave and wild and so sure of everything because you were always at the end of it.
Now bedtime feels different. He stalls. He asks more questions. He hugs me tighter. And when I lay next to him, I can feel his little heart pounding against my arm. It’s not monsters he’s fighting. It’s the fear of another morning without you.
And that breaks me.
Because I know that feeling.
Every night when I close my eyes, there’s a split second where I pretend this is temporary. That somehow this was all a mistake. But morning always comes. And with it, the reality that you are still gone.
He’s not scared of the dark, babe. He’s scared of the light. The light that confirms this is real. That Dad isn’t sleeping in his chair. That your shoes aren’t by the door. That your laugh won’t echo down the hallway.
He misses the safety of you.
And I’m trying so hard to be enough. I hold him. I pray over him. I tell him Daddy is watching over him. I leave the lights on if that’s what he needs. But I know there is a space in his heart that only you could fill. The same space that aches inside my chest every single day.
Sometimes after he falls asleep, I just sit there and look at him. He looks so much like you it almost hurts to breathe. I whisper to you in the quiet and ask you to sit beside his bed. To wrap him in whatever heaven feels like. To make him feel brave again.
He shouldn’t have to be this brave.
None of us should.
If you can hear me, if you can see us, please stand at the end of his hallway again. Please be the comfort he can’t see but desperately needs. Take away the fear that comes with the morning.
We are trying. God, we are trying.
But some nights the dark feels easier than the daylight without you.
I miss you in every sunrise.
Forever your girl.
I grieve with a baby on my hip,
her breath warm against my collarbone,
her tiny fingers tangled in my shirt
like I might disappear too.
She doesn’t know the word “widow.”
She doesn’t know what it means
to lose the love of your life
and still have to warm bottles,
wipe noses,
find matching socks.
She just knows I’m her mom.
And that when she cries, I come.
So I come.
Even when my chest feels like it’s caving in.
Even when the weight of missing you
is heavier than her body pressed against mine.
I sway with her in the kitchen
and remember how you used to stand behind me,
hands on my hips,
kissing the back of my neck
like the world was still kind.
Now the world is quiet in all the wrong ways.
I cry in the shower so she won’t see.
I whisper your name into her hair
like maybe she’ll carry it back to you somehow.
Like maybe heaven leans closer
when a tired mother begs softly.
She laughs sometimes —
this cute, little, baby laugh —
and it startles me.
Because for a split second
I forget you’re gone.
And then I remember.
And it knocks the air out of me all over again.
Grief doesn’t wait
for nap time.
It doesn’t pause
because there are diapers to change
or little hands reaching up.
It lives in my bones.
In the silence of your side of the bed.
In the way I still turn
to tell you something funny
before reality crashes in.
But I keep moving.
Because she needs milk.
Because her brother needs snacks.
Because life — cruel and relentless —
did not end when you did.
I grieve with a baby on my hip
and strength I never asked for
braided tight with heartbreak.
I am shattered.
I am surviving.
I am mothering through the ache.
And some nights,
when she finally sleeps
and the house exhales,
I let myself fall apart
in the dark.
But when morning comes
and she reaches for me —
eyes bright,
arms open —
I gather the pieces again.
Because she is half you.
And loving her
is the closest thing
I have
to holding you.
Babe,
Happy Valentine’s Day.
God, I hate even writing that without you here.
Today is the first Valentine’s Day without you, and it feels wrong. The world is covered in red and pink and hearts, and all I can feel is the hollow space where you should be. I woke up reaching for you out of habit — just for a second — before reality hit like it always does.
I miss the way you made it simple. The way you’d pretend you didn’t care about the holiday but still showed up with flowers. The way you’d smirk when I acted surprised. I miss your arms around me. I miss the weight of you next to me. I miss being yours in a world that felt steady because you were in it.
Today doesn’t feel romantic. It feels painful. It feels unfair. It feels like love with nowhere to land.
I never imagined I would be spending Valentine’s Day talking to the sky instead of kissing you. I never imagined loving someone who isn’t here to love me back in the physical way I crave so deeply.
The hurt is sharp today. Louder. Heavier. It’s in my chest and in my throat and in every memory that pops up without warning.
But even in the ache, I am still so grateful that I got to love you at all. That I got to have a Valentine worth missing this much. That kind of love doesn’t disappear just because your body did.
You are still my person. Still my forever. Still the love of my life.
Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.
I love you. And I would choose you again in every lifetime — even knowing it would hurt like this.
Babe,
This morning our sweet boy woke up all on his own — thirty minutes early — and ran into the living room bursting with excitement. We said our usual good mornings and curled up on the couch together. After a few minutes, with that sparkle in his voice, he asked if I wanted to hear “something cool.” You know I can never resist his stories.
Then he caught me completely off guard.
He said, “I saw Dad last night in my dream!”
My eyes filled with tears while my heart somehow smiled at the same time. I asked him to tell me everything. And in his precious words he said, “I was eating SpongeBob ice cream — the kind from home — and I was outside with Va and I asked her to throw me over the fence and she did and Dad was on the other side eating ice cream too! He SMASHED that ice cream!”
Babe… I could see it so clearly. You, on the other side of that fence, absolutely smashing that ice cream like only you would. That made me laugh through my tears.
For a split second, I wished it had been me you visited. I wished I could see you, even just in a dream. But that thought passed quickly because I was just so thankful he saw you — and that in his little heart, you looked happy and okay.
Sometimes I feel like I want to give up. The weight of missing you is so heavy. But moments like this remind me you are still walking beside us in ways we can’t always see. Through dreams. Through memories. Through our sweet boy’s smile.
Until we see you again on the other side, we will keep living for you.
We love you. Always.
Hi Babe,
Your sweet little boy and I were curled up on the couch tonight watching a show. I was craving something salty, so I grabbed a handful of almonds and started snacking. I had only eaten a couple when Ben paused the show, turned to me so seriously, and said, “What are you eating?”
I told him they were crunchy almonds and that they were really good. He asked if he could try one. I handed it over as fast as I could before he could change his mind. Without hesitation, your boy popped it in his mouth. He chewed slowly… and then his eyes got so big.
“That’s good!” he said.
Babe, you would have laughed. That proud little grin on his face like he’d just conquered the world.
I just wanted you to know he’s trying new foods — just like you always encouraged him to. He even likes beef jerky now. Little victories that feel so big without you here to see them.
I hope you’re proud of him. I hope you’re proud of us. We’re trying so hard.
We love you. And we miss you more with every passing day.
Forever your babe.
