I learned to make myself smaller,
tucking into the corner of the couch
while carers moved around me
in their bright, official orbit.

Matthew’s mum,
but treated like another pair of hands —
a shadow following rules,
asking permission to step outside,
staying awake through long nights
with staff who didn’t know his rhythms,
his storms, his quiets.

I told myself it was virtue,
this soft compliance,
this smoothing of waters.

But it wasn’t virtue.
It was survival
in a world built of other people’s
schedules and emotions.

Now the edges of that life
are loosening.
I am not fighting myself anymore.
I am learning the weight and the worth
of simply being
me.

And on the eve of his birthday —

forty‑six years of love

held in memory’s gentle hands —

I feel the space he filled,

the space he still fills,

and I miss him

with a quiet that echoes

through the whole house.