This spring marked 10 years since I lost my mother. I mean lost in the literal sense: One day she didn’t show up to work, and my family spent the next 40 days searching for her. I was 20 years old, my mother was my best friend, and suddenly nothing in my life even remotely made sense anymore.
Six long weeks later, we got the heartbreaking call that our mother’s body had been found, in a place we never would have thought to look. For the past 10 years I’ve had to find ways to live with the heartbreaking narrative of my mother’s suicide. As you might imagine, Mother’s Day is not easy for me.
My email inbox refuses to let me forget about its arrival every year. For weeks leading up to that day, every store I’ve ever shopped at sends me well-meaning but misguided suggestions on what to buy the woman who brought me into this world. I could buy my mother flowers or a fedora, anti-aging cream or an Apple watch. What I can’t buy is the one thing I really want: more time.