Happy Birthday, Mom! If I Had One More Day…

Today would have been my mother’s 93rd birthday. It’s been over a decade since she passed, but if I could have just one more day with her, I know exactly how we’d spend it.

First, we’d pile all four of my grandchildren into the car and head straight to the Townhouse Diner in Hamden, CT. Mom would order the same thing she always did—a toasted corn muffin with butter and a cup of coffee. She’d sit there, stirring her coffee, watching the kids bounce in their seats, shaking her head at their energy but secretly loving every second of it.

After breakfast, we’d go back to her house, and that’s when the real chaos would begin. The grandkids would lose their minds over all the treasures in the house—the yellow dollhouse, Fisher-Price toys, dolls, Matchbox cars, and books. That house was always a kid’s dreamland, a place where toys from decades past were still well-loved and waiting for little hands to bring them to life again.

At some point, she’d head to the kitchen to make Palatschinken—thin, crepe-like pancakes—filled with raspberry jam and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. There was nothing like the smell of them cooking, the warm sweetness filling the house. We’d all gather around, forks in hand, ready to devour them before she even had a chance to sit down.

Then she’d take a little break, heading outside to feed Rocky Raccoon, the much-adored deck guest who showed up expecting his daily meal. And through it all, the TV would be on—always on, always in the background.

But this time, I’d do something different. I’d ask her the questions I never got the chance to.

Was she satisfied with her life? Would she change anything? Did she see anyone “up there”? Was she with her parents again? Her Omi?

Also, I’d apologize. Mom didn’t “do sick”, meaning we never discussed her various illnesses. But she suffered. A lot. I never really thought deeply about it. Towards the end of her life, Mom told me she cried every day. I didn’t know what to say, so I would nod and change the subject. I’m sorry about that now. I think, despite all her kids and grandkids, she was actually pretty lonely. And sad. And probably scared. I wish I had given her the opportunity to talk. Maybe she wouldn’t have shared anything. But maybe she could have unburdened herself.

One thing she said during her last days stuck with me. It was in the emergency room when it was pretty clear she’d be admitted to the hospital for the last time. Mom looked up at me from the bed and said, “I had a job to do here, and I did it.” Then she asked if I would be mad if she “went.”

Mad? How could I be mad?

It’s been almost fourteen years since she and I had a laugh together. If we had one more day, we’d share all the same stories once again, laughing at the same things. Then she would look around at all the kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Her beautiful hazel eyes would crinkle at the corners as a broad smile spread across her face, still youthful and smooth, even after 79 years. She would be proud. She did do her job.

And we are so grateful.

Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you every day.