I turned thirty-two in the back seat of a stranger’s car, wearing the same black dress I had slept in the night before, with dried tears on my cheeks and soil still clinging to my shoes from my son’s grave.
No one said happy birthday to me.
Not my mother.
Not my father.
Not my sister who held my hand while the casket was lowered.
Not a single person who had just stood beside me in the cold cemetery pretending to be my family.
They remembered the flowers.
They remembered the obituary.
They remembered to argue about where to go for lunch afterward.
They just forgot me.
The Longest Year of My Life
A year ago, my life was loud in the best way. Noah had just turned four and had learned how to shout “Watch this!” before doing literally anything — jumping off the couch, dumping cereal on the floor, trying to put on shoes backwards.
He was the kind of child strangers smiled at in grocery store aisles. The kind who asked you to read the same book five times in a row and then cried because you didn’t use the right voice for the frog.
I used to get annoyed when my family said he was “too much.”
“He just needs discipline,” my mother once whispered when he refused to sit still at Thanksgiving.
But he wasn’t too much. He was everything.
The Diagnosis That Stole Our Air
The bruise on his leg wouldn’t fade.
At first I thought it was normal kid stuff. He tripped over nothing. He climbed things he shouldn’t. I didn’t rush him to the doctor the first week.
The second week he started getting nosebleeds in the middle of the night.
The third week he woke up screaming that his bones hurt.
By the fourth week, I was holding him down while a nurse tried to find a vein.
Acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
I remember the doctor saying it like he was reading the weather. I remember nodding like I understood. I remember thinking, This can’t be happening to us. We are boring people. Bad things don’t come here.
But they do.
Living in a Hospital Room
The children’s oncology ward became our world. The walls were covered in cartoon animals and faded motivational posters that said things like You’re Braver Than You Think.
I slept on a chair that didn’t recline. I learned how to untangle IV lines in the dark. I learned the beeping language of machines.
My family visited. At first.
My mom came every day the first month. Then it became twice a week. Then once a week. My sister stopped by when it was convenient. My dad texted me Bible verses.
They all said the same thing before they left.
“Call if you need anything.”
I needed everything.
Watching My Child Disappear
Chemo stole Noah piece by piece.
His hair came out in clumps. He hated the way the pillow felt on his bare head, so I wore a scarf around my own just so he wouldn’t feel alone.
He stopped asking to play. Then he stopped asking to eat. Then he stopped asking questions altogether.
One night, he whispered, “Mommy, am I going to die?”
I told him no.
I was lying.
The Day the Hospital Went Quiet
He coded at 3:42 a.m.
I remember the number because I stared at the clock like I could burn it into my brain and rewind time.
The room filled with people. Someone was pushing on his chest. Someone was yelling numbers. I was pinned against the wall by a nurse whose face I never saw.
When they finally let me hold him, he was lighter than he’d ever been. Not just in weight — in presence. Like the world had already let go of him.
He died with my lips on his forehead.
Planning a Funeral Instead of a Party
My birthday was four days later.
I didn’t even remember it until the funeral home asked for my date of birth while filling out paperwork.
I almost laughed. The sound got stuck halfway out of my throat and turned into a sob.
My mother said, “We’ll celebrate later. Right now we need to focus on Noah.”
I wanted to scream, I have been focusing on Noah for a year. I just lost my child. Can someone focus on me for five minutes?
But I didn’t.
The Funeral
The church smelled like lilies and floor cleaner. Noah’s tiny white casket looked like it belonged to a doll, not a human being.
My family sat in the front row with me, their shoulders touching mine. I felt like a prop they had arranged for the performance of grief.
People hugged me and said things like:
“He’s in a better place.”
“God needed another angel.”
“At least you have memories.”
I nodded because it was easier than punching them.
My Birthday
We went to lunch afterward because “that’s what people do.”
My sister argued with the waitress about seating. My father complained about the parking. My mother ordered a glass of wine even though it was barely noon.
They talked about the funeral like it was a business meeting.
No one looked at me.
No one said my name.
The cake came at the end — a sympathy dessert from the restaurant with We’re Sorry for Your Loss written in chocolate.
I stared at it until my eyes burned.
That’s when I realized it was my birthday.
And they had forgotten.
Not because they were evil.
But because once my child was gone, I was invisible again.
