It looks like your laughter filling the room.
It looks like me choosing to be present instead of disappearing into memory.
That’s enough for today.
If you’re reading this as a father who has walked this path, know this:
You are not failing because it hurts.
You are not weak because you cry.
You are not alone, even when it feels that way.
Showing up is love.
Staying is love.
Celebrating through grief is love.
And love counts, even when it’s heavy.
Looking Toward Tomorrow
Tonight, when the house grows quiet again, I’ll sit with the weight of the day.
I’ll replay moments.
I’ll feel the ache.
I’ll probably cry once you’re asleep.
But I’ll also feel something else.
Because we made it through.
Because you felt loved.
Because her absence didn’t erase the joy—only reshaped it.
Tomorrow, we’ll keep going.
One step.
One day.
One birthday at a time.
Happy Birthday, My Love
You may not remember this birthday.
But I will.
I’ll remember the way you smiled.
The way you clapped for yourself after blowing out the candles.
The way the room felt full and empty at the same time.
And I’ll remember that even without her, love showed up.
