Three years and three months. And still, a familiar gesture, a similar smile, macaroni and cheese… anything can bring it on.

A huge hand reaches into my chest and wraps itself around my heart. It squeezes, and pain starts to radiate through my chest, adrenaline pumps through me. Arms, feet, neck, coursing hot. “No. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Instant panic with nowhere to run.

This is my life and I can’t escape it. I can’t be me anymore. I want to be somebody else. Anybody else.

I want to be a Mama whose child is not dead.