Mom - Today you would have been seventy-seven. That number feels strange. Not because I can't do the math. But because somewhere in my mind, you still exist in a thousand different ages at once. Young mother. Strong mother. Boundless-energy mother. The woman who somehow gave away more love than seemed possible for one person to carry. The version of you standing in a kitchen. The version of you waiting by a door. The version of you who somehow always knew when something wasn't quite right. Time keeps moving. It always does. Birthdays arrive whether we are ready for them or not. And today it arrived carrying your name. Seventy-seven. A birthday you should have had. A birthday I wish I could have called about. A birthday that deserved cake, and candles, and probably more fuss than you would have wanted. Maybe even a churro. Definitely a churro! You probably would have rolled your eyes at that. Then asked why on earth anyone would build an entire project around fried dough. And then, after hearing the explanation, you would have told everybody you met about it for the next six months. Because that's who you were. The older I get, the more I understand that so much of what people love about me was never mine alone. The kindness. The stubbornness. The ability to find joy in small things. The belief that people matter. The instinct to help. The hope that somehow things will work out. Those things have your fingerprints all over them. I wish you could see the man I became. Not because I've done anything remarkable. But because every good thing in me started with something you taught, something you modeled, or something you quietly carried long enough for me to learn from it. I wish you could see the friends who became family. The places I've been. The stories. The adventures. The ridiculous churro project. The fact that people now send me churro pictures from airports, small towns, foreign countries, state fairs, gas stations, and places that probably shouldn't legally be selling churros. I think you would find that hilarious. I know you would be proud. And I hope you'd recognize yourself in all of it. Because whether people know it or not, you are there. In the way I love. In the way I show up. In the way I try to leave people better than I found them. That's you. Still working. Still teaching. Still loving. All these years later. And if I'm honest, there are still days when I wish I could pick up the phone and tell you what happened. Not the big things. The little things. The funny things. The things only a mother would care about. The things only a mother would laugh at. The things only a mother would understand. Those are the moments that still catch me. So today, on what would have been your seventy-seventh birthday, I am grateful. Grateful for every ordinary day that became precious later. Grateful for every lesson I didn't appreciate until I needed it. Grateful that of all the mothers in the world, I got you. Everything good in me has my mother's fingerprints on it. You are still celebrated. You are still missed. You are still loved. And if there is one thing I know for certain, it is that every good mile of this journey has been traveled with a piece of you beside me. Though if you are somehow watching all this unfold, I imagine you are shaking your head a little and saying: "Jeffrey, I am very proud of you." "But I still cannot believe people are mailing you pictures of churros." Happy 77th Birthday, Mom. I love you.