This is a difficult letter. I feel it is time for me to write it.
We are doing it. We are living without your father. Together.
It is painful to write. To think about. I can only write in a stream of conscioussness to you because it is still hard to organize my thoughts while grieving. We have been grieving almost a year. Almost. In two weeks it will be daddy's birthday. And a month later, there we are. May 8th. A whole year.
You are 13, about to be 14 this summer. It is 2025. The last time I wrote to you, it was 2020.
Everything that I hoped for you in that letter has come to pass: you continued to giggle, to cuddle, you still trusted in us--and now, me, alone. I am astonished to see the values in you that we hoped for, and the ease with which you operate in the world with them, as if it is as natural as breathing. You are independent in mind and also tasks! (managing your schoolwork, doing your own laundry, helping with things like the dishwasher, shoveling snow, picking up dog poo... Lol. You especially help with Stormy, your wild dog we adopted during Covid.)
You are so very kind and respectful. Your sense of humor is growing and taking shape. Your father is in you in the best ways! You share his genes of punctuality, caring for me, loving sports and excelling in school, and a zen-like, laid-back nature. You have spent the last several years growing and learning at school, enjoying basketball, and making more friends. You are much more social! It is fun to see.
And the last two years you have especially watched and somehow had been processing the disease and break-down of your father's body, and his death. I remember key moments when it all struck you hard. For example, a year ago, we had tickets and plans for a trip to Europe for the summer, and I told you we had to cancel.
You asked, Then when will we go??
I had to tell you with a lump in my throat that I didn't think your father would ever be able to travel again. He was in so much pain, he could hardly ride in a car for 15 minutes. We knew the cancer was terminal and would tell you soon, some evening soon, the three of us -and Stormy- hugging together on our bed.
But before, I think in your own way in that moment talking about the trip, you were asking me if he was going to die. If it wasn't, my answer certainly confirmed the thought that was perhaps vaguely shifting around in your subconscious mind. You had cried yourself to sleep.
And the moment. The moment I came to you at the dining room table where you were eating breakfast. I will always remember it but I want to write to you. The morning sun was already bright and streaming into the living room windows. It was a beautiful day. This is what I think I remember: I told you that you wouldn't be going to school. You asked Why and scooped more cereal into your mouth. I waited for you to swallow.
I tip-toed toward it. I think I reminded you of how sick Dan had been the last two days. How we had our time at the hospital alternating holding his hands, watching him sleep, and glancing around at family - Nana and Papa, Uncle Doug, Aunt Rachel -all of us who had tears we couldn't keep still with bursts of blush to our noses and cheeks.
Tip-toe. I explained we needed to go to the hospital today. I paused.
There was only one thing to say and I had to just say it.
"Daddy died."
You wailed softly and began crying.
I hugged you awkwardly across the space between our chairs. After a while, we let go and you hiccupped with tears.
A long pause.
Then you looked toward the piano, to all of the framed photos of the three of us together in Europe: You and your dad beaming in the summer heat in front of the Colosseum in Rome, he and I embracing in the pool at our villa in Chiancioano Terme - the smile of laughter on his face! You and him dressed in matching white linen button downs for the ceremony, standing side by side. My handsome boys.
The photos of him ripped more out of you and you wailed again. You cried more. I held you.
Then you went to our bedroom and lay in our bed and cried. I gave you space. I sat at the table in torture at the gravity of your loss. Your loss of innocence. The gaping wound I had inflicted.
I love you so much and I hope you felt that through the pain. I am so proud of you for sustaining what I had to tell you. Taking it in, and you have been living it, so strongly and wisely, as time has gone by.
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