Christmas Eve

Today is Christmas Eve.

People say “Merry Christmas” so easily. It rolls off the tongue, a bit like “How are you?” — and there’s an unspoken expectation that we smile and say it back.

But how can we, as mums who have lost children, be merry?

That word has been erased from our vocabulary — from our very being.

Now it’s simply Christmas.

Just surviving.

Just existing.

Barely hanging on.

This is our second Christmas without Coop.

Now there are only memories.

As I wrap presents, my mind drifts into a bittersweet game — imagining what I might have bought you this year, the jokes we’d share, and the one silly gift that would make us laugh for years to come.

In that game, I get to escape reality for a moment.

Because reality is this:

You are forever gone.

And I am forever here without you.

Our little family of three is incomplete, and the ache of that reality is unbearable.

Instead of planning Santa surprises under the tree — because even at 27, I would still be sneaking them in (I always loved helping Santa) — I sit at the cemetery today, writing and talking to you.

It’s usually just the two of us here.

But today the cemetery is busy — so many people carrying so much sadness.

Still, nothing feels quite like the grief of losing a child.

I love you, Coop. I hope, wherever you are, you can feel that love.

And at night, when I lie awake for hours, I wait and hope for a sign — something small to whisper, Hey Mum… I love you too.