It’s a strange kind of grief

 It’s a strange kind of grief.

The kind where you think about the people who would’ve given anything to sit at my kitchen table.
To hear the chaos.
To clap at the dance recitals.
To watch my babies turn into who they’re becoming.

There are people in heaven who would’ve never missed a game.
Never skipped a birthday.
Never rolled their eyes at the noise.

And then there are people here.
Breathing. Alive. Invited.
Who choose not to show up.

That part hurts in a different way.

Because absence by death is heartbreaking.
But absence by choice feels personal.

Still… I don’t let it steal my joy.

The ones who are meant to be here are here.
The ones who love loudly, consistently, without conditions, they are the village my kids will remember.

And for the ones in heaven
I like to believe they’re watching every milestone.
Cheering the loudest.
Smiling at the way these babies carry pieces of them forward.

Some people miss out.

But my kids?
They are deeply loved.

And that’s what matters.