Dear Mom,

Moving back to Chicago was something I always said I would never do. Ever since I left in the first place. When I was 18. I graduated from High School a semester early, fled Illinois, moved to Tallahassee, FL and began college during the summer.

Leaving Chicago was the healthiest choice I had made at that point. It was for a lot of reasons. It didn’t help that you raised me in the Suburbs. I’ve always loved the city but that’s not where I had my roots. I was deeply unhappy in the Suburbs and couldn’t wait to escape.

My memory is very clear about another reason I left. As much as I loved my friends, I knew, deep down, that they were not the right people for me to surround myself with at that time. I was going down a path that was bound to get me into too much trouble. Of course, it wasn’t difficult to find the same sort of people once I got to college, but this was different. I felt that my current situation was enabling me to lose control. I had allowed people to use me. To take advantage of me. Some close friends and some newer friends. Friends who I knew only hung out with me because I had a car and would drive them wherever they wanted to go. Friends who had no problem driving all around the Burbs with me to run errands if that meant that at some point we would stop at the bank to clean out my personal bank account to pay for the drugs that we were inevitably going to pick up. The personal bank account that I had built by working part-time at Noodles and Company for the last 6 months. There was nothing about this life that was good.

So I left. Leaving suited me. I grew a lot while on my own. But something that changed dramatically after I left was our relationship. With distance, we became closer. I don’t know if you remember, but we didn’t always get along while I lived at home. We fought a lot. I felt that you smothered me. I felt like you didn’t understand me. And to be perfectly honest, there were days when I couldn’t stand being around you. After I left, I missed you. We began talking.

It took a few years, but eventually, we spoke on the phone multiple times a day. You became my best friend. I think the most difficult thing for me to grasp is that I clearly remember the moment in my life when we became friends. The moment when it was obvious that we would have a life of experiences ahead of us. When I could actually envision us going on trips together and wanting you to be by my side for all of the important moments in my life. It was months before you were diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Now, it’s not like our world ended right there. Sure the next five years would prove to be difficult, but we were lucky enough to get five years. And in those five years you and I built an even stronger relationship. One that I felt was important to put everything I had into. I put so much into it that I actually made people worry about me. People in my life were concerned that I got too close to you and it would leave me devastated after you were gone. A concern that I appreciated but also ignored.

I can’t say that your death devastated me, completely. Well, at least it didn’t shock me. I knew it would happen eventually and, toward the end, we all knew it was approaching. However, it is something that I will never get over. I lost a huge part of myself when you died. And this might be selfish, but it happened at a really shitty time in my life.

Days before your final brain surgery, I had a Skype conversation with you that I will never forget. I asked you to help me pick out a song to walk down the aisle to. We spent hours listening to music together. Music that was about love and marriage. Music that we both had emotional connections to. That day was one of my absolute favorites. I knew that it could quite possibly be one of the last days with you. And in a way, it was. You stayed alive for about six more weeks after that day. But you were never the same after the surgery.

This day, along with the day you took me to pick out my wedding dress, are days I will forever be grateful for. They are the two experiences I had with my mother, my best friend, while planning my wedding. A day that was always more important to you than to me. A day that you never made it to. 

You died two months before my wedding. You missed my big day. And now, less than two years later, you are missing my first pregnancy. You will miss my first child and whatever children come after. You will miss everything. Big and small. All will be missed.

And I miss you. Every second of each day. Losing you is the most difficult thing I have ever gone through. I’m sure there will be many more difficult times to come, but you will not be here to help me get through them. I know I have a ton of support and love in my life, however, if I’m completely honest, I feel alone.

But then I think of my baby. I still have three months left of my pregnancy, but I feel close to this child already. I hope this kid loves me as much as I love you. And I hope I don’t feel as alone once he/she comes into my life. It truly sucks that you won’t be around for it, but I need to accept that. Your life is over. Mine has just begun.

I love you, Mom.

-Rachel