My sons have lost their father. My mind is still trying to catch up with reality.
There are no words for grief.
Yes. I am thankful my sons knew their father. I am thankful for the years of life spent together. I am thankful that I didn’t break down and scream and wail when I buried my husband. I am thankful that I could maintain a facade of strength for my children.
I wake up at 4 a.m. wondering what happens next. What do I do now? What will happen to my children?
Someone tells me stories of sons who have lost their fathers at a young age–of how sons mourn that loss even into later life. They tell me there are moments when children will want no one else but their father. I understand this. I comprehend what people are trying to say. I understand, things will never be the same again. I understand that the future has become even more uncertain than it was.
Who will fill up that loss? How do I fill it up? How do I become father and mother at the same time?
My eldest son steps into his father’s shoes. He tells me: Mom, if you do the laundry, I will clean the bathroom.
He clears up the kitchen without complaint, puts away clean dishes, stacks the cups, cleans out the sink, takes out the garbage, vacuums the hallway, the stairs, the floors.
My youngest son breaks into tears.
I miss Dad.
We all miss Dad.
We never got around to fixing the kitchen windows. My eldest son’s room is half-done. Our hallway is clogged with boxes from the attic improvement that will have to wait.
People tell me I should be proud of my sons, that my children are strong, that I am strong, that we will make it.
I am filled with sorrow for my children. I am angry at life. I also know others have gone through this loss and made it.
All I want is for my children to be happy. I want my eldest son to laugh again.