The Birthday Card I Never Sent

It's been five years, Mom. Five years since you died. Every year, around your birthday, I feel this...itch. This need to talk to you, to tell you everything that's happened. And every year, I chicken out. I start writing a card, like I used to, and then I just...crumple it up.

This year, I actually finished one. I even bought a stamp. It's sitting on my desk right now, addressed to you, at the old house. Someone else lives there now, but I still can't bring myself to throw it away. I wrote about how I finally got the promotion I wanted, the one we talked about for ages. I told you about Mark, how he's actually a good guy, not like the losers I used to bring home. And I told you I miss your meatloaf. Sounds stupid, I know.

The truth is, Mom, I feel so guilty. I was such a brat when I was a teenager. I never appreciated anything you did. All I did was complain and slam doors. I know you loved me, even when I was being a complete idiot, but I wish I'd told you I loved you more. I wish I'd said thank you. Maybe then, this card wouldn't feel so heavy.