Every year, one of the things I looked forward to most was my mom’s gifts. Not because they were extravagant, she would always insist they were “nothing” or apologize before we even opened them. They were thoughtful in a way only she could manage. She paid attention. She would always worry we wouldn’t like them, even though we always did. My house is filled with those gifts. And now, all I can think about is how much I’m going to miss them.

But it isn’t just the gifts. Every single piece of the Christmas holiday is her.

The traditions she quietly held together. The familiar routines we never thought to question. Christmas didn’t just arrive. It was built, piece by piece, by her and in our adult years the anticipation of her arriving.

Every December, I’d try to make my way down to the Cape to get my mom for Christmas. We always made sure to squeeze in some last-minute shopping in Chatham, wandering in and out of the same stores year after year. It was familiar and comforting and her.

This past weekend, I realized that’s what I needed. So I headed down with my nieces, Izzy and Addy.

We drove the streets I grew up on, the same twists and turns, the same roads, but something felt different. Something was missing. As we went from store to store, one of us would inevitably bring her up. A memory, a comment, a “Grandma would love this.” This town is her to us. She lives in every corner of it.

We drove up Route 28 and past her house. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to hide them from the girls. I miss her so much, but I know they feel her absence too. Maybe in ways they don’t yet have words for.

We pulled into Captain Parker’s and sat down to eat, and one of the girls quietly said, “It feels weird without Grandma.”
“I know,” I replied.

Because it does feel weird. Everything does.

I’ve been missing home and my mom so much that I thought being on the Cape would make it better. And for most of the day, it did. The Cape holds so much of her. It smells like her, sounds like her, remembers her. But even there, every part of Christmas reminded me of her. The shopping, the meal, the drive, the places she loved. There was this constant feeling that I was forgetting something. Like I needed to stop by her house. Or call her. Or tell her we made it to the bridge. I realized on the ride down that I no longer have someone to call when you get to the bridge.

Something just felt off.

Christmas now feels like a series of reminders. She’s in the ornaments, the traditions, the meals, the planning. She’s in the quiet moments where her voice should be, guiding us through another holiday.

I’m afraid this is a feeling that will never go away. That I’ll always feel like something is missing. Like there’s an empty space where she should be, especially during this season. Christmas without her feels unfamiliar, unfinished, and painfully quiet.

And maybe this is part of grieving: realizing that when you lose someone who held everything together, the holidays don’t just change, they unravel. You don’t just miss the person; you miss the way they made everything feel whole.

This is me grieving.