The Day After the News

I knew what death was. That part wasn’t confusing. I knew people died. I knew bodies stopped working. I knew that when someone died, they didn’t come back. What I didn’t know—what no one prepares you for—is how different it is when it’s your mother. How her death doesn’t just end a life but detonates the one you were standing inside.

The day my mom died, the world didn’t stop. That’s what made it unbearable. Morning still came. School still mattered. Midterms still existed. People still had expectations. And I was eleven years old, standing in the middle of a reality that no longer made sense, with no adult around whose job it was to tell me what to do next.

My brother had midterms that day. A sophomore. The last day before Christmas break. Him and my mom had worked too hard together for him not to go. Late nights. Studying. Her pushing him because she believed in him. I’ve always believed he went for her. Because finishing mattered to her. Because showing up mattered to her. Because grief didn’t erase responsibility—it just sat beside it. So he went to school.

I stayed with his father, who on paper was family, but in reality, was just a man in a house that no longer felt safe without my mom in it. Even at eleven, my body knew. Something was off. Something was missing. The house felt hollow. Like the warmth had been evacuated.

While I was waiting for somebody to tell me what to do next, I overheard him tell my grandfather that if I had stayed home, my mom probably wouldn’t have been out in the weather. So, in other words, she wouldn’t be dead. I didn’t react. Not then. Shock does that. It suspends your feelings like they’re on hold. That sentence didn’t break me in the moment, but it lodged itself somewhere deep. It would come back later. Sooner than I’m sure anyone thought. When guilt finally found words.

I asked to go to my best friend’s house because I didn’t feel safe staying there—and for the first time that day, someone said yes without questioning it. When I called her and told her what happened, her mom let her skip school immediately. No hesitation. No explanation needed. Just an understanding that a line had been crossed in my life and nothing was normal anymore. I’ll forever be grateful to Mrs. Shannon as well.

When I was dropped off, I walked through the door with my arms full of Christmas presents my mom had already bought. Gifts she had chosen. Gifts meant for a future that had just been erased. The second I saw my best friend, my body collapsed. I dropped everything and ran straight into her arms. That was the moment my nervous system finally gave up pretending I was okay.

We cried the way kids do—fully, uncontrollably, without knowing how to stop. We held onto each other like letting go might mean falling apart completely. I don’t know how long it lasted. I just know that in a day where I had no adults guiding me, she became the place I could land. If there are any kids reading this—find a best friend. Mine saved my life that day. — She didn’t ask me what I needed. She didn’t tell me to be strong. She didn’t try to make it better. She just stayed. She matched my grief with her presence. She held me steady when there was no one else whose job it was to do that.

We spent the entire day together, walking. From her house to mine. From mine to our school. From school to the mall. 5 miles total that day. I don’t think we were trying to accomplish anything. I think we were trying to stay ahead of the reality that was chasing me. Because if I stopped moving, I would have had to sit inside what had happened—and I didn’t know how to do that alone.

While we wandered, my father was driving nine hours to come get me. I’ve spent years wondering what that drive felt like for him. Grief. Anger. Relief that he got me back. A complicated silence. Some answers don’t belong to the child who was left behind.

When we went to the school, I told my principal, my teachers, and my boyfriend that I wouldn’t be coming back—because my mom died. An eleven-year-old delivering her own exit lines. I remember the looks on their faces. Adults frozen, unsure how to respond, watching a child manage logistics no child should ever have to handle. That was the day I learned that sometimes there is no adult coming to take over. Sometimes you become your own witness.

By the time I got back to my mom’s house, my father had arrived. He hugged me hard and cried into my shoulder, and that’s when something inside me went quiet. The numbness wasn’t peace. It was containment. My body shut down what it couldn’t hold. I didn’t cry again until the funeral three days later. Not because I wasn’t hurting—but because my system knew I had to survive the next few days first.

I didn’t understand yet that I wasn’t just losing my mom. I was losing my world. My routines. My safety. My brother. My best friend. My childhood. In a way, I lost my first best friend too. The girl who put her entire life on hold to walk every step with me until I left for my dad’s home state. We still talk now but not like we did then. Sometimes I feel the ache of being forgotten—but I also know love doesn’t disappear. It just moves into the background. She’s still there. Quiet. Steady. Part of the story God was writing for both of us. And when I look back now, I see it clearly: On the day my world collapsed, another child stood between me and the ground—and that mattered more than she will ever know.

In case you ever read this,

Dear Raine,

I don’t know if I ever truly told you what you meant to me. Not in the way an adult understands it. Not in the way time sharpens clarity. But when I think back to that season of my life, your name is everywhere. In the quiet moments. In the memories that still feel warm instead of sharp. In the parts of my story that didn’t completely break. And even in the dark moments at my house you were witness of.

You were there for the last three weeks of my mom’s life. Sitting with us. Laughing with us. Loving us in a way that didn’t ask for anything in return. I don’t think either of us knew then how sacred those days would become, not knowing that it wasn’t just my mom’s last 3 weeks, but it was ours too. I didn’t know they would turn into something I would carry forever. But you were there — and that matters more than I can ever explain.

And then there was that day. The day my world ended, and no one told the rest of the world to slow down. I walked into your house holding Christmas presents my mom had already bought, and the second I saw you; I fell apart. I didn’t need words. I didn’t need permission. My body just knew you were safe. I ran into your arms, and you held me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You skipped school that day. I don’t know if you realize how much that mattered. And your mom saw my pain and chose compassion — and you chose me. You stayed. You walked with me everywhere. You didn’t rush me. You didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. You just were there. I didn’t know then that you were saving me.

I didn’t know that your presence was the thing keeping me from completely disappearing into numbness. I didn’t know that in a moment where there were no adults guiding me, another child would become my anchor. But now I know. I know that nobody will ever replace what we had. I know that kind of love — the kind that shows up without judgment, without fear, without conditions — is rare. I know that even though life pulled us in different directions, what you gave me didn’t fade.

Sometimes I feel the ache of distance. Sometimes I wonder if you know how often I think about you. But I also believe this: love like ours doesn’t vanish. It just changes form. It waits quietly in the background, ready if it’s ever needed again. You were my best friend in the truest sense of the word. You were kindness when everything else felt cold. You were safety when my world had none.

Thank you for loving me when I didn’t even know I needed saving. Thank you for being part of my mom’s final chapter. Thank you for holding me up on the worst day of my life.

You will always be part of my story.

With all my love, XOXO, The Healing Wildflower