It’s hard to know what to write about after your mother dies. I don’t want to write about having good days because I worry people will think I’m an insensitive jerk. I don’t want to write about the bad days because, well, they’re bad. The truth about everything is that sometimes I feel like I’m collapsing in on myself from the pressure and sometimes I don’t.

Mostly I have good days. Days where the routine of everything doesn’t let my mind linger on the bad things. Days like today where I spent some time with my brother and father and was able to forget. The days when I can forget about the loneliness are the best days.

Even on good days I can have moments where the crushing ache is too much, moments when I am done being strong and just need to be held and told everything will be OK.