I once believed I had faced the hardest task of my life when I explained to my two children, just six and eight years old at the time, that their father was diagnosed with brain cancer. Little did I know that the truly daunting words were yet to come—words that were devoid of any hope or faith.
Not: “Daddy has a small tumor in his brain, but skilled doctors are doing everything they can.”
Not: “Daddy will be staying in the hospital to receive the best care.”
Not even: “We can hope for better days ahead.”
Perhaps I should have sensed the gravity of the situation the moment his diagnosis of Glioblastoma—a brutal and terminal illness with a grim prognosis—was delivered. Or maybe it became clear when we learned that the tumor had metastasized to his spine. Or perhaps it was the day he entered hospice care.
I held onto the belief that we could defy the odds, that a miracle could occur, and that I would never have to utter those words that would shatter their childhoods, strip away their innocence, and obliterate the faith in happy endings they so firmly held.
Matt passed away in a hospice room at 9:37 p.m. Surrounded by friends and family earlier in the day, filled with laughter and shared memories, he drew his last breath with only me by his side. After the visits ended, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, the presence of death lingering in the air.
I was left to deliver the devastating news to his family, friends, and most painfully, to our children, who had left for dinner, blissfully unaware that they would be returning to a fatherless home.
Returning home late that night, I faced the closed doors of my children’s room. It felt cruel to wake them with the news of their father’s passing. Or perhaps it was my own fear that kept me from doing so. I chose to let them sleep, granting them one last night of believing in happy endings.
The following morning, my daughter woke first, wandering into my room as she always did, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She climbed into bed, accustomed to the empty space where her father used to be and turned on the television. The words I dreaded to say lodged in my throat.
I waited for my son to wake, convincing myself that it would be easier for them to hear this together, that they could support each other through the heartbreak. In that moment, I observed my daughter, trying to capture every detail before their world would irrevocably change.
She didn’t ask about Daddy; for her, death was a concept that belonged to fairy tales and distant stories, something that didn’t happen in real life. When my son finally awoke, he joined us in bed, unaware that today would not mirror yesterday. We had planned a family activity with an art therapist that afternoon in the hospice; it seemed so trivial now.
With no more time to delay, I uttered the two words that would shatter their innocence: “Daddy died.”
In that moment, I felt utterly helpless as I witnessed their hearts break. I yearned to alleviate their pain, to assure them of my presence forever. But that promise was beyond my control, and they now understood that I could not shield them from life’s harshest realities.
I could only offer my love, my presence, and together, we could gaze out the window at the sky, seeking beauty in the midst of grief. I could answer their questions about heaven with my own truth: I didn’t know where Daddy was, but perhaps energy transforms and remains with us, unseen yet felt.
As the days unfolded, I watched them navigate their grief. They shifted between tears and laughter, finding solace in family and also retreating into moments of silence. I saw them struggle, stand tall, and emerge stronger from their weakest points. Their innocence was lost, but they lived their truth, whatever that looked like in each moment.
I began to realize that while words hold immense power, they cannot take away the resilience of childhood. Children possess an innate strength that allows them to endure and adapt, even in the face of profound loss.
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Summary
The experience of telling children about a parent’s death is profoundly challenging. Despite the initial belief that explaining the diagnosis would be the hardest part, the reality of delivering the news of loss proved to be far more difficult. However, while the words can alter a life, the resilience of childhood remains intact, demonstrating that children are capable of navigating through grief and adapting to change.
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