Forever Bentley: A Mother's Journey Through Grief

I’m angry.

I’m angry I had to bury my two-year-old. Do you know what that feels like? To put your baby in the ground? I don’t get to see him anymore. I don’t get to touch him. I don’t get to kiss his face or hear him call for me. I don’t get to hold him when he’s scared or watch him learn new things.

I’m angry that I’ll never see him start school. I’ll never take a “first day” picture. I’ll never see him blow out birthday candles again. I’ll never see him grow. Every single milestone people celebrate with their kids—I don’t get any of them.

I’m angry that I didn’t give him a chance to be a big brother. He would’ve been the best big brother. I can picture it, and it breaks me because it will never happen.

I’m angry that my life looks like this. Angry that I have to carry grief this heavy, this ugly, this unfair. Angry that I live in a world without him.

I’m angry because none of this should have happened. He should be here. He should be in my arms. He should be living.

But instead, I’m here writing this. Trying to find words for a pain that doesn’t have words.

I’m just angry. And I think I always will be.