Open Blinds on Mother's Day

  I opened the blinds on the front side of my house this morning. The other day I realized I'd been opening them for almost a week and leaving them open for most of the day. I was rather startled to realize that. But you see, I have kept them closed firmly for two years, seven months, and ten days.
  Woe be unto the person who would wander along and open them. Having them open just made it too bright in here. It looked cheerful and normal. Nothing has felt cheerful and normal to me in ages. Besides, people driving past could see in (sorta) and I don't like people looking at me when I'm in my cave. I don't even like them seeing the entrance to the cave, much less my shadow moving around inside. 
  If you want to come to my cave, you go right ahead and come on over. I welcome fellow cave dwellers. I even welcome cave visitors. I just don't like being observed. I don't like being observed when I go out in public. If I show up on Mother's Day or (if by some miracle) I show up on a Labor Day weekend, don't gaze upon me with that pitying look. Don't glibly tell me happy Mother's Day or blithely invite me to Labor Day services at church. If you really wanna know, I'd rather be out in the wilderness with nothing and nobody on both of those weekends.
  Mother's Day to me sucks because I can't be all happy and delighted like it is assumed I am or should be. I am delighted to have my four kids galloping wildly about getting me surprises and flowers and bringing coffee while I'm on the toilet. But at the same time I feel bad that I'm not more outwardly delighted with their glee because I'm missing the other half of them. 
  I'm missing that little boy who left last and made me close my blinds for so many long grueling months from hell. I'm missing the one who should be riding around with his dad in the truck and lording it over the girls because he's old enough and they aren't. I'm missing the other girls who should be wearing strange combinations of pink dresses and sparkly red shoes with holey white leggings (she don't like the other colors because they aren't beautiful) and going to church with their wild hair standing on end and crooked glasses.
  Labor Day should just be omitted from the year. I just want to leave and drive and drive and go somewhere where nobody can find me so I can scream from a mountain top about the unfairness of life and babies dying. But then I feel guilty if I even think about leaving because I should be going to the cemetery with balloons because it's Radley's birthday and he needs balloons on his birthday so he knows I haven't forgotten him like everybody else. Yes, I know he doesn't care and no, that doesn't make me feel better to hear it.
  I guess the moral of the diatribe is this: don't gaze at me. Don't pity me. Don't give me doe eyed sympathy. Don't get annoyed at me. Don't speechify me for avoiding church. Don't ask me why I'm not there. Give me a hug. Text me. Call me. Cry with me. Better yet, come hug me and cry with me at the cemetery on yet another dumb important milestone day. If you can't, sob over my tombstone picture messages with me.
  That's what it takes it get me to a point after two years, seven months, and ten days in which I start to open my blinds again.