On the first Mother's Day weekend after mom died, Chris was working out of state. On the weekends, I bent the rules and told the kids they could sleep wherever they wanted—the basement, the living room, my bed. Their choice. So, on Mother’s Day Eve, two of my three littles ended up in my room, and after I watched Lady Bird, a coming-of-age movie with a heavy emphasis on the main character’s imperfect relationship with her mother (it seemed appropriate and did not disappoint), I tiptoed in there so as not to disturb them. I maneuvered around, shuffling past the dog crate, trying to find my phone charger plug in the dark, and I heard my daughter’s tiny, sleepy voice call out.

“Mommy?”

“Yes sweetie, Mommy’s here.”

“Mommy, I had a bad dream and it's dark and I'm scared and I need you to come hold my hand. If you hold my hand then I won't be scared anymore.”

“Okay baby,” I said.

I climbed under the covers, finding a sliver of the bed that hadn’t already been claimed by my son and daughter’s sprawling limbs. My hand enveloped Evelyn’s and all was right in her world. She fell back asleep right away.

And all I could do in that moment was cry, quiet but heavy tears in the dark of night. Cry for the mother I missed. Cry for the mother I hoped I was. Cry for the mothering I never had. Cry for the mothering I did have, realizing she did what she could with the cards she was dealt.

The next morning, the kids tried their best to bring me breakfast in bed, and for not being able to use a stove, and with no other adult to help them, they did pretty well. Cheerios and strawberries are my favorites anyways. Then we went to church, where the women got white flowers and the worship songs reminded us that God was present in our storms. I couldn’t hold it in. I started bawling during worship. A father-figure friend sitting next to me provided a literal shoulder to cry on and I’ll never forget it. It was wordless but so comforting. The worship leader sang that God was ever faithful, never changing through the ages and yet I felt like my world was just ripped apart and everything had changed. The kids and I went to the cemetery afterwards. We went out to dinner with my brother and sister. I tried Brussels Sprouts for the first time and realized I liked them. We got ice cream after. The sun was shining. Mom was still gone.

The grief that day was so raw, fresh, difficult. And three years later, and I remember every bit of it. And the next two years of Mother’s Day? I don’t know if I could give a recap if I tried. I know they were still hard, but it didn’t feel like my heart was outside of my chest, being stomped on like grapes. It wasn’t the same as that first year. The grief will always be there but it looks different now, feels different too.

Now, I’m looking forward to breakfast this Sunday, since the kids are old enough to make eggs and bacon, but really if they wanted to serve Cheerios and strawberries again, I’d be fine with that too. If it’s a nice day, maybe we’ll go for a hike. Maybe I’ll take a nap. Maybe (probably) songs will make me cry again. My oldest son will tell me corny jokes, my middle son will give me hugs, my daughter will boss us all around and run the show and sound like me, for better or for worse. They will help me celebrate the day as a mother even if I’m sad about it as a daughter. Both things can be true.

I’ll still avoid the Mother’s Day section of the card displays at the store. I probably won’t go on social media much. I’ll still feel deep pangs of sadness, but they won’t define the entire day. Sometimes grief feels like straight sorrow but more often than not I find it’s a cocktail of sorrow and joy together, because they can intermingle more than we typically realize. Sorrow for the loss, joy that someone is no longer in pain. Sorrow for the memories missed out on, and joy for the memories that were made in the first place. Sorrow and joy, sadness and gratitude, longing and hope. They can be best friends if we allow it.

For the other motherless daughters reading this, I see you and I care about you, and you are not alone. This day carries so many emotions and it is, or it can be, a beautiful celebratory day, but it can also be so hard. I get it. If Sunday sends you a wave of difficulty, take care of yourself. Allow yourself to feel the sadness while also reflecting on what’s good and true. Maybe nothing feels good or true. I’m sorry. I get that too. But goodness and truth are always there, it’s just that sometimes they are waiting in the shadows. You are loved and I hope you feel it amidst the wailing and the white flowers and the worship.

And to those of you who can—take pictures with your mom, send her flowers, and maybe even make her breakfast. If you need a menu option, you can’t go wrong with Cheerios and strawberries, but that’s just my opinion.