Every year that we’ve been together, you’ve surprised me with beautiful hanging baskets and porch pots. Mother’s Day was always your holiday to shine. You wanted those flowers to last, to mean something, because you knew how deeply I love being a mom. A lot of years, they would just show up—no fanfare, no big speech. I’d open the front door and there they’d be. Quiet, thoughtful, full of color. Just like you.

Today, I bought myself flowers. Through teary eyes, I picked out blooms that reminded me of the ones you used to choose. I told myself they were from you to me. And I ugly cried all the way home.

Because this year is different.

This year, the porch is quiet. This year, you’re not here. You’re still in the hospital, and I’m here in this house, carrying the weight of all the unknowns. What if you never make it home? What if you come home but the light never fully returns? What if your depression doesn’t let go—and what if, someday, you do?

What if this isn’t just depression? What if it’s something irreversible, something I can’t love you back from—like vascular dementia?

You haven’t eaten or had anything to drink in two days. It’s like the part of you that wanted to fight has gone quiet. And I’m terrified. I picture your eyes, vacant and far away, like you’re looking past this world. Like you’ve already started letting go. And I’m stuck here—powerless to pull you back. I can’t hold your hand. I can’t speak words into your silence. I can’t fix it. And it’s breaking me.

I don’t need the flowers. I need you.

I need your laugh. Your hands fixing something in the house. Your quiet companionship during documentaries I don’t understand. I need my best friend.

Please, please come back to me.

I’ll keep the porch pots watered. I’ll hang up the baskets like I always do. But they’re not the same without you. None of this is.