For the one I never held, but always hold

I sit beside my mom, hug my grandma, watch my sister chase her little boy, feel the warm weight of my nephew nestled into our circle- like a promise the world remembered to keep.

And still, in the other hand- a shadow. A weight only I can name. The ache of a heartbeat I never heard. The child who slipped between the stars before the world ever got to meet her.

They say time moves forward- and it does. Diapers are changed, meals are made, life moves on like a tide that forgets what it washes away.

But grief has its own clock. Its own Mother’s Day for the baby I never got to raise.

I smile for the babies growing in my sisters- touch their bellies with soft hands, speak hope into their tomorrows. But inside, I tend a garden of what-ifs, weeds of silent sorrow winding their way through the cradle that never stood in our home.

Brandon holds my nephew while cooking and I see it- that flicker behind his eyes, a storm quietly stirring.

Later, we watch a short film called, “Shower” by Alex and Jon. It breaks something open in both of us- a portrayal of grief that mirrors ours so closely it feels like someone peeked into our hearts. We sit there in silence, tears falling. Not just for the story on the screen, but for the one we’ve been quietly living.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers. “Playing with him, watching Elias corral him…” “It gives me a glimpse of what our life should’ve looked like. And it makes me angry. And sad. I don’t understand.”

Neither do I.

There’s no guidebook for the in-between-

for being full and still aching,

for being happy and heartbroken.

No manual for how to mother a child

whose name was never written on a certificate

but is etched into every part of your soul.

But this much I know- love isn’t less because it lives in silence. And sorrow doesn’t cancel out the joy. They sit side by side, as do I, learning how to hold them both.

I am a mother. To the boy who calls me “Mom.” To the baby I never got to hold. To the memory that still kicks softly in the corners of who I am.

And I will carry them both- in arms, and in heart. Seen, and unseen. Always.

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Some days, the joy is loud. Other days, the grief is louder, deafening even. Today, they speak in the same breath. To anyone navigating both- you’re not alone. And to my little one, taken too soon but never forgotten- I love you. I always will.

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You can watch the short film “Shower” by Alex & Jon on YouTube—it’s a tender and powerful piece about love, loss, and holding space for both.