My Heart Is Still Buried in Sorrow

October 27, 2026 -- Another birthday, but the heartache remains.

Today is my birthday.

I spent it with my daughter, Gina, the only person who was with me today. I appreciated her company, and I tried my best to smile, laugh, and make our time together pleasant. I did not want her to see how terribly sad I was inside.

But the truth is, I was merely going through the motions of celebrating.

There was nothing particularly celebratory about how I felt.

My former husband had other plans. I had hoped to borrow his car, but he told me he had somewhere else to go. On an ordinary day, perhaps I could have brushed it aside. But on my birthday, after years of separation and everything that has happened between us, it felt like another reminder of how little consideration I seem to receive from him.

All I have ever wanted from him throughout these years of separation is kindness.

Not love. Not reconciliation. Not another chance at marriage.

Just kindness.

The kind one human being extends to another, especially someone with whom he once shared a life, raised children, and built a family.

Instead, there have been so many occasions when I have felt dismissed, disregarded, and hurt by his actions. I have often experienced his treatment of me as oppressive, and today only deepened the resentment I have been carrying.

I am angry with him. I cannot pretend otherwise.

But even that anger pales beside the grief I carry for my son.

The Silence That Hurts the Most

My son did not greet me on my birthday.

No call. No message. Not even a simple greeting.

His birthday is on October 31, just four days after mine. For years, those dates were part of our family's happy occasions. Now, they remind me of how far apart we have become.

Sometimes, he comes home to the very house where I am staying. Yet he does not speak to me or even make himself visible to me.

And I have learned to remain inside my bedroom when he visits. If I need to step outside, I make sure we do not cross paths, not even in the hallway.

Imagine having to avoid the very person you wish you could embrace.

I respect the distance he has chosen, although it hurts me more than I can describe.

I know that he continues living his life, spending time with his father, sometimes with his sister, going out, sharing meals, and celebrating occasions together.

And I am no longer part of those moments.

It isn't their happiness that hurts me.

It is my absence from a family life I once belonged to.

I miss my son terribly. I miss the ordinary things — conversations, shared meals, laughter, and simply knowing that I still have a place in his life.

More than anything, I miss being his mother in the everyday sense of the word, not merely through the memories I carry.

And there is one fear that I cannot seem to silence.

What if his anger lasts for the rest of my life?

What if I die without ever speaking to him again?

What if even after I am gone, his heart remains closed to me?

I cannot know what he feels or what the future holds. But the possibility of never reconciling with my own child is a sorrow that cuts through me like an arrow piercing my heart, from front to back.

The Sorrow I Carry Every Day

I cry every day.

Sometimes because of my son. Sometimes because of my marriage and everything that went wrong. Sometimes because of the financial losses, the betrayals, my health concerns, and the seemingly endless difficulties surrounding the home I have worked so hard to build.

And sometimes, I cry because I am simply exhausted.

I feel as though I have spent years trying to put my life back together, only to find that another part has fallen apart.

People may see me working, writing, studying, making plans, arranging my home, or sharing photographs of flowers and beautiful things.

They may think that I am doing well.

But they do not see the woman who cries behind closed doors.

I still have dreams. I still want to build a meaningful career, particularly in grief coaching and end-of-life doula work. Perhaps grief has become so close to my heart because I know what it feels like to mourn someone who is still alive.

But having dreams does not mean that my sorrow has disappeared.

And no amount of comforting words or physical affection can simply take away the pain I carry.

I wish I could say that another birthday has brought me greater peace, wisdom, or acceptance.

But it hasn't.

I am still hurt. Still disappointed. Still questioning God about things I cannot understand.

And I am tired of pretending that I am stronger than I feel.

I do not need to turn every painful experience into a lesson about resilience. Sometimes, I simply need to acknowledge how much something hurts.

Today, I smiled for my daughter. I tried to make the day pleasant. I appreciated having her beside me.

But underneath those smiles was a mother grieving the absence of her son, a woman weary of years of unkindness and disappointment, and a heart longing for the family life that once existed.

I do not know what the coming year will bring.

I do not know whether the relationships I mourn will ever be restored.

And I cannot honestly say that I have made peace with everything.

What I can say is that another birthday is drawing to a close, and I am still carrying more sadness than I know what to do with.

My heart is still buried in sorrow.

And for now, that is the truth of where I am.