Jenny Corkum
They tell me
it is only one day—
one Sunday
I could simply ignore,
one date I could cross from the calendar
and wake up whole again on Monday.
But it is never just one day.
It begins weeks before
with cards lining store shelves,
flowers beside grocery-store doors,
commercials filled with babies,
breakfasts in bed,
and families gathered around tables
I once imagined would look like mine.
It follows me into my inbox,
my television,
my church,
and my social media feed.
Everywhere I turn,
the world celebrates motherhood
while quietly reminding me
of the mother I never became.
I love my mother.
I am grateful she is here,
and I want to honor her.
But love and grief
can live inside the same heart.
I can place flowers in her hands
while remembering
the small hands
that never reached for mine.
I can smile beside her
while mourning the word
I never heard spoken to me:
Mom.
There is no card
for the woman who wanted motherhood
but never received it.
No flower handed out
for the years she hoped,
the prayers she whispered,
the treatments she endured,
or the future she grieved
without a funeral.
At church, mothers are asked to stand.
They are praised, blessed,
and celebrated.
I remain seated,
wondering whether anyone notices
how much courage it takes
not to leave the room.
Sometimes I do stay home.
Not because I am bitter.
Not because I cannot celebrate others.
But because protecting my heart
is not the same as hardening it.
Sometimes survival looks like silence,
a phone turned off,
closed curtains,
and permission not to witness
everyone else’s joy.
Then Father’s Day arrives.
Another wave.
Another reminder
of the father my husband
never had the chance to become.
His grief may be quieter than mine,
but quiet grief is still grief.
The world rarely asks
what Father’s Day feels like
for a man whose children
exist only in dreams.
We are told to focus
on what we have.
To travel.
To sleep late.
To enjoy our freedom.
To love our pets.
And I do love my dogs.
I am proud to be their dog mom.
They bring comfort, joy,
loyalty, and love into my life.
But please do not ridicule that love,
and please do not call them
replacements for children.
Nothing replaces
the child I wanted.
My life can be full of love
and still contain an absence.
Both truths belong to me.
So no—
it is not just one day.
It is the weeks of reminders,
the commercials,
the flowers,
the sermons,
the photographs,
the celebrations,
and the silence afterward.
It is honoring our own parents
while grieving for ourselves.
It is mourning the mother
I never became
and the father
my husband never had the chance to be.
It is learning that joy and sorrow
can sit beside one another
without either becoming less true.
On Mother’s Day
and Father’s Day,
I do not need to disappear
to make other people comfortable.
My grief deserves room.
My love deserves recognition.
My story deserves to be seen.
I am childless—not by choice.
Still loving.
Still nurturing.
Still worthy.
Still whole.
And even on the days
that remind me what I am not,
I will remember
everything I am.
