The rain pattered on top of the wood, the droplets racing each other down the box’s side towards the grass it laid upon. I was five. I opened the toy box, but my teddy was gone. I’d left the box on the bottom step of the front porch by accident. Maybe it was the neighbour’s children who took him, or maybe I left him in another place and was too distracted by all the other demanding tasks a five-year-old needs to complete and simply forgot about him. Nevertheless, he was gone, but Mum was there. She held my hand, the warmth of her embrace enough to compensate for the loss.

“It’ll all be okay,” she whispered as I sobbed for my teddy, “besides, he might just be on an adventure. He might come back soon. Just wait.”

I hugged her tighter, feeling like my entire world was caving in.

“There will always be days like this,” she softly reassured me, “you will always lose things you love; trust that it will get better with time.”

Then, I turned sixteen.

“Honey, he was a terrible guy,” Mum said, carrying with her tissues and a blanket.

“No, Mum!” I argued, “you literally don’t understand. I was in love with him.”

I looked down at the phone in my hand, the texts still illuminating the screen:

I need to talk to you.

                                                Okay, what’s up

It’s over, I don’t love you anymore

                                                Seriously, wtf babe
                                                I love you, don’t do this

Sorry                                        

But why
            message cannot be delivered.

“You’re only sixteen,” Mum took my phone from me, probably for the best.

She sat on the edge of my bed, placing the blanket over both our laps.

“There will always be days like this where your heart gets broken, but boys will come and go. Its yourself you need to love first, okay?”

I didn’t respond, but I knew she was right. She always was.

Just like that, I was twenty-four. The music started; my heart dropped.

“You look beautiful,” Mum smiled, raising her hand to her eye to wipe away a tear, “this is your day, don’t be nervous. There will never be another day like this.”

I smiled, taking the corner of my dress to her face, and gently dabbing her tear away.

“Don’t do that, you’ll ruin it!” she laughed in return, nudging my hands away and fixing my veil.

I took her hands in mine and whispered, “I love you”.

She let my hands go and took her seat, but her presence- the overflowing love and warmth- stayed with me as I started down the aisle.

Suddenly, I was thirty-two. “Please, Mum. I don’t know what to do,” I fought back my tears, one hand holding the phone to my ear and the other patting my crying baby’s back.

“I know how hard this is, especially with your first,” she comforted me.

I had moved to another state for work. I thought talking to Mum on the phone would be no different than in person, but tonight proved that wrong.

“How do I stop her crying? It’s been non-stop for three weeks,” I sighed. My exhaustion was evident in my soft and empty voice, one I wasn’t trying to hide from her. I would give anything to be a baby in my mother’s arms again.

“There will always be nights like this where she won’t sleep. Think of the other nights where you stopped her crying. It will end, just be patient.” Her voice was filled with sympathy knowing of my struggle.

I closed my eyes, envisioning her in front of me: her smile, her embrace. I wanted to be the mother to my own child as she was to me. And then the crying stopped. Mum was right, she always was.

Then I was forty-nine. “I need to move back,” I explained, again fighting back tears, “they let me go because of the pandemic.”

Mum stayed silent a minute. “Your father and I have just moved into the nursing home,” she started, “but the house hasn’t been sold yet. I’m not sure what you want to do, but we will help you move back. Whatever you need.”

I felt her worry through the phone. She was old now, too frail to care for me but too strong to let me see her struggle.

 “I will find a way, Mum. I don’t need your help all the time,” I explained.

“Don’t be silly, you are my daughter,” she contested, “I will help you regardless. There will always be days like this where you need my advice and strength, no matter how old I get.” Her love travelled through her voice. She was right.

Then I was fifty-five. Empty and numb, I watched the rain as it pattered on top of the wood, the droplets racing each other down the coffin’s side towards the grass it laid upon. The array of rose buds and petals began to wilt on the lid. Mum had helped me through every day like this, every loss I  ever experienced.

But today, she could not help me.

She never prepared me for the day I would be losing her.