07/30/2025
Happy Birthday, Mary.
There isn’t a day that I don’t think of you—but today, on your birthday, the ache is especially sharp. I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss the fierce and tender love we shared in our own way, shaped by a life that asked too much of us too soon.
We came from a difficult world—one we somehow knew we were walking into. Maybe even before we had words for it, we understood what we were stepping through. And somehow, we each thought we were protecting the other. I thought I was watching over you, and I know you believed you were doing the same for me. Maybe we both were. Maybe that’s what love is, even in its most broken forms.
Your life was so hard, Mary. Too hard. And the end, especially, felt unbearably heavy. But I’m grateful—deeply, soulfully grateful—that we had those last few weeks together. That we could just be there, no pretending, no need to fix what couldn’t be fixed. Just love.
I want you to know, wherever you are now—in whatever form your spirit has become—that I carry you with me. I see the courage it took to live the life you did. I honor it. I honor you. And I believe we’ll reunite someday, somewhere, beyond all this.
Until then, I send you love that doesn’t fade. Love that remembers. Love that hopes.
Happy birthday, Mary. You were—and always will be—beloved.
Ben
