See, at the end of the day, you’re alone.
Nobody understands the pain—nor should they—to begin with. There are a lot of people, from friends and family to caring strangers who are prepared to help you out, however they can, but they don’t know how, and they don’t know when. In any case, the caring withers away. It’s been a year; one and a half years; two years. They slowly forget. They don’t care as much as they did in the beginning. Time heals, yes, but not in this case. And time wears down too.
And how could they know that Sundays are the hardest? How could they know that you spent your Saturdays, for more than five years, with him, going to the park, running, building Legos, cooking, eating together, watching videos, reading stories, listening to church bells and sleeping together. His naked feet touching yours. His arm on your chest. Waking up together on Sunday mornings.. No, him waking up first, at 6am, playing alone so that baba could sleep some more, then waking him up to ask for his help to separate two Lego pieces..
Now I hate Sundays.