It’s been 34 years since the first Christmas without my mom.

The most memorable feeling was the deep sense of loneliness. Once my brother had left for the Marines, he completed basic training and lived in San Diego. My stepfather was in NYC living in our old home. My dad was somewhere in the Dominican Republic or NYC, I was never sure. Despite being in Puerto Rico and surrounded by my mom’s family, including aunts, uncles, and cousins, I still felt empty. Everyone I knew had the privilege of having both their parents in their lives. I essentially had none.

In 1988, on Christmas Eve, I can recall sitting in the dimly lit living room of my aunt and uncle’s house. I was staying with them now. The past five months had been surreal. I had a feeling of being in a fog during that time. It was real, yet it wasn’t. I went to school with little enthusiasm, just going through the motions. I longed for my old high school, Brooklyn Tech, and the life I had back then. The one thing that brought me solace was having my cousin as a roommate. Our relationship was always tight as we grew up. She was as close to me as a sister.

My stepfather came to visit. He went as far as dressing up as Santa and distributing presents at the family gathering held at my oldest aunt’s residence. I later discovered that he had ulterior motives for being there. He was interested in seeing if there was any property owned by mom (gifted from my grandad) that he could lay claim to. My family wasted no time in shooting down him down. After leaving without what he wanted, our interaction was minimal.

Whenever I saw my friends with their parents, I would feel a pang of jealousy and a sense of missing out. In college I spent Parents’ Weekend watching classmates getting spoiled and embarrassed and wondering, what if? I learned to suppress my emotions. I got used to the fact that my dad was not around while I was growing up. Gradually, I adjusted to not having my mom present as well. I developed the skill of being self-reliant and handling things independently. That gave rise to a range of other issues, but we can table that discussion for another day - I promise.

There are moments when I can’t help but wonder how life would be if she were here.

I know that the path that my life took would have been very different, but what if I had my current life and she could be a part of it? An abuelita with four grandkids, she would have celebrated her 80th birthday this year. What kind of grandmother would she have been? The sort who would spoil her grandchildren with affection and shower them with unconditional love. What type of mom to her adult kids? Growing up, I always felt out of place because she was significantly older than the other moms. She was 32 when I was born. “Old” by 1970s standards. Perhaps, like some of my aunts and uncles, she would have also been the older grandmother, with a certain stubbornness that comes with age. Others viewed her as someone who was quiet and reserved. Perhaps she’d still be the same person, but now spending most of her time doting over her grandkids. I could see that.  

Normally, I don’t think about what could have been, but it gets more difficult during the holidays. Anyone who has experienced the death of a parent or close relative knows exactly how it feels. As years go by, their absence becomes integrated into our lives as we continue. It is during noteworthy events, like big years and anniversaries, that we pause to reflect.  80 years old.