There’s an ache in my chest that reminds me you’re gone.

It sits with me all through the day and greets me at dawn.

Birthdays pose a conundrum when people die. How strange and liminal they feel… there’s naught to celebrate, but it was once such an important day.

Many adults hate their birthdays — I’ve always resented that — because our society tantalizes the fear of aging, as if growing old is not something miraculous. As if living a full life is not something to celebrate, as if gray hair and wrinkles aren’t something beautiful that we earn as we triumph through this tumultuous life.

I often tell people that birthdays — just like weddings — aren’t really about the individual. They are, and they’re not. They’re really a chance for others to celebrate one’s life: other people love your birthday, other people love celebrating you, because they love you. It’s a chance for others to gather around you and demonstrate their love.

Once they die, however, birthdays become solemn days. What is there to celebrate, if not the one to celebrate?

My mom sometimes made a cake on Patrick’s birthday, and that felt odd, but what else is one to do?

Last spring, she was with her parents’ in an allegedly great trip. But oh, we can’t contact them because they decided to try to sue us. So loving of them, right? how nice for your grandparents and aunt to try to sue you after your mom dies.

Her church threw her a cute Hawaiian-themed party at work, but not once did her pastor reach out to us after she died. And it’s not safe to contact them, either, because they’ve been in constant communication with my grandparents… who tried [are trying??] to sue us. The two executives who did reach out to us? Ah yes, had dinner with one and never heard from them again. Had dinner with another, and that individual told me that they needed to read my blogs before I post them because they don’t like the phone calls they get when I do mention something about them. I laughed. Oh, and apparently they didn’t appreciate the guest speakers at my Mom’s funeral. We chose the wrong people, I guess, just a couple days after my Mom died.

No mom, no grandparents, no church. Oh, how different this year looks from last.

Like I wrote a few weeks back, if they can treat me this poorly, what did they do to her?

Happy Birthday, Mom. Thanks for all this. I am sorry for whatever they did to you, because what they’ve done to us is horrific, and I’m sick of keeping their secrets. Lies and secrets kill people.