It’s a curious situation that unfolds after a significant loss. Boundaries that once felt secure seem to have vanished, leaving me to navigate a world where people feel free to overstep and offer unsolicited opinions. It’s as if my role has been reduced to that of a child, incapable of managing my own life and decisions. The reactions and comments I’ve encountered since your passing are nothing short of bewildering, particularly coming from women, who I would have thought would understand better.
Take, for instance, a message from a so-called friend. Had she attempted to deliver such personal commentary on my parenting or our housing situation while you were still here, I highly doubt she would have had the audacity to do so. It was a typical day when I checked my email, hoping to see a message from the realtor about our house. Instead, I found this unexpected correspondence, which arrived just as the realtor pulled up.
The email began with an apology for previously overstepping her bounds. She claimed the last thing she wanted was to add to my stress during this already overwhelming time. Yet, in the very next paragraph, she did exactly that, positioning herself at the forefront of a line of people who have unintentionally increased the burden of my grief.
She had visited our home the night before and spent a brief 8-10 minutes with my youngest son. In that fleeting span, she assessed him and felt compelled to share her insights on how I should manage his grief. She expressed her belief that he was “mortified” by my public writing about your death. Naturally, I asked him about it later. He was surprised, saying, “Oh? You’ve been writing about Dad? Good for you! But, you know I don’t really read your stuff!” So much for her theory. He and his siblings have always been blissfully unaware of my blog.
My friend then went on to voice her concerns about selling our home, suggesting that I was trying to escape memories of you by doing so. Ironically, it is our son who is eager to move. He often expresses his sadness about living here, urging me to reach out to a realtor. The house has only been our home for five years, and my friend’s observations after just a few minutes of interaction hardly qualify her to make such judgments. Her interpretation of the situation was way off.
The thought that I would want to sell our home to escape memories of you is mind-boggling. Your essence is woven into the fabric of our family, residing in our children’s laughter and expressions. The home we shared is merely a physical space; you live on in our kids.
From the moment I first saw you in that restaurant, I knew you would hold a special place in my heart. The love we built is preserved in our children, from their features to their personalities. They carry your spirit within them, and that’s where you truly exist. The house is just a structure; our memories are what truly matter.
As I navigate this new chapter, I stand firm in my resolve to put our children first. They are the embodiment of both of us, and every day I strive to honor that love.
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