Forever Bentley: A Mother's Journey Through Grief

The holidays are coming.

The time of year that used to feel magical. The stretch of months where everything sparkled — from the glow of pumpkins on porches to the twinkling Christmas lights and the smell of cinnamon and pine in the air. I used to love this time of year. I used to feel the excitement building with every passing week — planning costumes, baking pies, picking out gifts, wrapping presents late into the night with a cheesy holiday movie in the background.

But now, these months feel heavier than any others. They’re not full of anticipation anymore — they’re full of dread. Every holiday that once brought joy now carries a hollow ache. They’re no longer about what’s coming, but what’s missing.

Halloween.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

And then, your birthday.

Four years old.

How can that be? How can time keep moving when mine stopped the day you did?

Halloween: The First Shadow of the Season

Halloween used to be the start of all the fun. I’d picture your costume months in advance — little Woody, Buzz, or maybe a tiny ghost holding his candy bucket. I see kids your age running around in their costumes, and I wonder which one you would’ve chosen this year. I wonder if you’d still love Toy Story or if you would’ve moved on to something new.

Now, when I see the orange lights and spider webs go up around the neighborhood, it feels like someone squeezing my chest. Because this was supposed to be your time — the kind of day that made you giggle with excitement. Instead, it’s another reminder that you’re not here to enjoy it.

I decorate anyway, because I know you’d want me to. I hang the little ghosts, light the candles, put out the pumpkins. But I cry through it. Every piece of décor is a memory. Every flicker of light is a whisper of what should’ve been.

Thanksgiving: The Empty Chair

Then comes Thanksgiving — the day of gratitude, they say.

How do you give thanks when the one thing you’re most thankful for is gone?

We’ll sit around the table, plates full, and there will be laughter. But there will also be that silence — the kind that only I hear. The moment my eyes wander to the empty space where your high chair used to be. The spot where mashed potatoes would’ve ended up on the floor. The place where you would’ve laughed at the sound of the mixer or clapped your little hands for pie.

I’ll smile when people talk. I’ll pass the rolls. I’ll play the part.

But inside, I’ll be screaming. Because gratitude feels impossible when your heart is still learning how to beat again.

Everyone says to “focus on what you still have,” and I try. I really do. I love your daddy. I love our family. I love this life we’re still trying to piece together. But there’s always a piece missing — the one that can never be replaced.

Christmas: The Season That Used to Feel Like Magic

Christmas hurts in a different way. It’s supposed to be full of hope and light, but for me, it’s the most painful. Every carol, every ornament, every wrapped gift is a reminder of the life I should still be living with you.

I used to imagine what Christmas mornings would look like — you tearing through wrapping paper, your eyes wide with wonder, the soft glow of the tree lighting up your smile. Now, I decorate the tree with shaking hands. I hang ornaments that bear your name, your picture, your tiny handprint.

It’s both beautiful and unbearable.

It’s a love that aches so deep I can hardly breathe.

There’s no manual for how to survive Christmas when your child isn’t here. People say things like “he’s celebrating in heaven,” and I know they mean well. But I’d give anything — everything — to have one Christmas morning back. Just one. To feel your little hands unwrap a gift, to see your face light up, to hear that laugh that filled every corner of my heart.

The world celebrates while I survive. Lights twinkle, music plays, and I walk through the season like a ghost — smiling for photos, showing up where I should, but never really there.

January: The Weight of Another Year

And then, after the holidays fade, I’m met with the hardest part.

Your birthday.

Your second birthday in heaven.

Your fourth birthday on earth.

I still remember your first one — how your little fingers smeared icing across your cheeks, how your laugh filled the room. That memory feels like it belongs to another lifetime now.

Each year, I try to honor you — to do something in your name, to let your light shine even when mine feels dim. But leading up to it, it feels like I’m carrying a mountain on my chest. The countdown to your day is a mix of love and agony. I want to celebrate you. I want to scream that you existed, that you mattered, that you still do. But I also want to collapse from the pain of it all.

Four years.

You’d be so big now.

I wonder what your voice would sound like, what your favorite color would be, how many new words you’d know, how you’d run, laugh, and love.

I wonder if you’d still climb into my lap when you were sleepy.

I wonder if you’d still call me “Mama” with that sweet little voice I hear every night in my dreams.

Living in the In-Between

These next few months are the hardest ones for me. They’re the ones where I plaster on smiles, wrap gifts, host dinners, and pretend I’m okay — because that’s what the world expects during the holidays.

But behind every smile is grief.

Behind every laugh is a longing that doesn’t fade.

Behind every “Merry Christmas” is a heart that still breaks a thousand times a day.

I try to remind myself that love doesn’t die. That even though you’re not here, your light still shines — in the butterflies that land near me, in the cardinals that visit our yard, in the acts of kindness done in your name.

But I’d be lying if I said it was enough.

Because nothing will ever be enough.

I miss you. Every second. Every season.

Especially this one — the season that used to mean everything,

and now feels like everything and nothing all at once.

-Bentley’s mom