The graduation, the wedding, the baby, the new front door. The happy days are supposed to be the easy ones - and then you're standing in one with a hole in it, doing sums nobody else can see: they would have been sixty-two today. They should be in this photo. They'd have cried at this.
Milestones hurt precisely because they're joy. Every good thing that happens after someone dies is a thing they're missing, and the better it is, the more they're missing. That ache in the middle of your happiest days isn't ingratitude and it isn't a mood disorder. It's arithmetic. It's love counting.
Standing in the day
- Give them a place in it, on purpose: a mention in the speech, their photo near the flowers, their ring on the bouquet, an empty seat that's empty deliberately rather than accidentally
- Warn the day's key people that a wave might come, so you don't have to manage their surprise on top of your grief
- Let the wave through when it comes - a happy day can hold five hard minutes without breaking
You don't have to choose between celebrating and grieving. The day is big enough for both; days always were. Bring them with you - it's the only way they get to come.