Today would have been my mom’s 70th birthday. She died in 2003, and every year since, this day has carried a quiet, familiar ache. I miss her deeply, all the years we didn’t get, all the memories we never made.

But this year, the grief feels different. It’s not just about my mom anymore. The sadness I usually hold for her is now intertwined with the pain of watching you spiral and the fear that I might lose you too.

I spoke with one of your nurses yesterday. She said you were doing a little better. You took two pills and ate a bit of food. That might sound small to most people, but to me it was everything. A glimmer. A breath. The day before, though, was brutal. You pushed me away when I tried to hold your hand. You told me you didn’t want help, that you just wanted to die.

I know that was the illness speaking — not you — but it doesn’t stop the pain from cutting straight through me. It hurts so bad.

I’ve been fighting for you since February 16, the day you first tried to leave this world. Three months. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not long. But it feels like a lifetime when you’re waking up each day wondering if the person you love will survive another.

The emotional weight is almost unbearable. One day I’m hopeful and clinging to updates from nurses, searching for signs of light. The next day I’m terrified — bracing for a phone call that might break me.

A part of me is trying to prepare for the worst. I don’t want to. I don’t want to numb myself to the love I have for you. I don’t want to shut it off just to protect myself. I don’t want to give up on you.

Today is May 16. A day that already held grief now holds even more. And yet, somehow, I keep showing up. I keep hoping. I keep loving.

Because that’s what you do when you refuse to let go.