Losing and Finding My Identity

“Mother’s Day must be hard for you,” a well-meaning friend mentioned at church one Sunday morning. It had been eight months since Sebastian had died, and I didn’t know what to say. I suppose it would be challenging, but at that time, still fresh in mourning from my son’s death, every day was hard. I hadn’t thought about Mother’s Day and didn’t want to celebrate anything then.

I had Sebastian’s signature from the last Mother’s Day card he made for me tattooed on my left ankle. My daughter has the same tattoo on her left forearm. It’s a constant reminder of my boy and her brother embellished on our skin of his existence.

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