I grew up Catholic, and Good Friday meant “Stations of the Cross.”

Mass and a somber day. I always wondered as a kid why it was often dark and rainy. Did God know?

One thing you never, ever say, “Happy Good Friday,” on this day, ever. Today we feel gratitude. Today we remember.

It’s also true that my mother died on this day. So I have yet another reason to be somber. I first prayed that I would make it to see her in time. And then I prayed I make it to each shift.

The last day, at 6:15 a.m. when I left, said, “I’ll be back before my shift,” and she she whispered “tomorrow night” and slowly, breathlessly, “love you” into my ear that was pressed to her mouth.

I felt so lucky despite being awash in sorrow and I suppose a sense of pre-grief at that time. Little did I know those would be her last words to me.