Still Loving You: A Birthday Letter to the Daughter I Miss

Today is my second-born child’s birthday.

The memories come flooding in like waves—some gentle, some crashing. I remember the day she was born, her tiny hands wrapped around my finger, her lungs strong and full of life. She was my little bear—so different from her easygoing older sister. Where one was calm, she was fire. She was feisty and loud, always determined to be seen and heard. That determination shaped her, even as a small child.

As she grew, the edges softened. She became such a sweet and caring soul. She made friends easily, her laughter infectious, her heart so full of love. We were close, and I cherished that bond. She called me for advice, came to me for comfort, and trusted me with her dreams. I thought that connection would never change. I thought I would always have my little bear within reach.

But life, as it often does, had other plans.

Sometimes people drift apart. Sometimes love isn’t enough to bridge the growing distance. And sometimes, we don’t get answers to the most painful questions. One day, she decided she no longer needed a mother in her life. She walked away—not just from me, but from the relationship we once shared, from the connection we once cherished. And with her, she took my grandson, Russel. My heart, which once beat with the rhythm of her childhood laughter, shattered in ways I never imagined possible.

If you've ever gone through estrangement with an adult child, you understand the grief. It’s a living grief—a mourning with no funeral, a heartbreak with no closure. You learn to smile while carrying a silent sorrow. You learn to keep living, even when a piece of you is missing.

I’ve had to accept, over the years, that she may never come back. That realization didn’t come easily. It came in waves—birthdays missed, milestones unshared, photos seen from a distance through others. It came with tears on holidays and aching silences on ordinary days. I had to stop asking why. I had to stop hoping for a reconciliation that wasn’t coming—at least not yet.

Still, it hasn’t gotten easier.

I don't dwell on the pain as much anymore. I can’t. For my own peace, I’ve had to build a life around the hole her absence left behind. But the ache is always there, especially today.

I know I’m blocked on her social media, and I understand that she may never read this. But I need to say it anyway. Because even when love feels like it’s floating out into the void, it’s still love. And it’s still worth speaking aloud.

Sarah Nichole—my Bear, my Nosehole—I love you.

I am thinking of you on your birthday, as I do every year. I carry you in my heart, always. I remember every detail of the day you were born, every laugh we shared, every hug, every fight, every moment. You are part of me. Nothing—no distance, no silence, no heartbreak-can ever take that away.

Happy Birthday, my precious daughter. Wherever you are, I hope you are well. I hope Russel is growing strong and happy. I hope Willie is good to you. I hope life is kind, even if I can't be there to witness it.

If love could bridge the gap, I would be holding your hand today. But for now, I’ll hold onto hope. Quiet, steady hope. And I will keep loving you from afar.

Always, Mom.

Russel and Sarah