This year, as I do every year, I sent you a card. Within it, I shared my admiration for you as a mother and grandmother, and I made sure the kids added their unique touches with their youthful scribbles. We also picked out a gift card for a lovely restaurant where you can enjoy a meal with your husband, the man who has stood by you for decades. I hope you find joy in the card and the gift, though I understand if you don’t. After all, it lacks the signature of your son, and it’s hard to celebrate without him.
I regret not reaching out more often in recent months. I wanted to, but somehow, it felt impossible. I often pictured you tending to your garden or hanging laundry, and I thought about you almost every day, even if I didn’t pick up the phone or send a text. There’s really no excuse for my silence. Since that cold January day when I watched my husband—your son—suffer and pass away in the hospital, navigating life has been a challenge for both of us.
I know your heart aches for your son. As a mother, I should be able to relate to the pain of losing a child, but I must admit that since my husband’s passing, I haven’t paused to consider whose grief is greater. I shared my life with him for 15 years, and I believe he loved me deeply, as I loved him.
It may not be fair, but I’ve often felt that my sorrow surpasses that of others, including yours. Our friends expressed their sadness, but their tears seemed to fade with time, while mine continue to flow unabated since January. You live far away, across an international border, and in many ways, in a different world. I mistakenly assumed your grief had lessened too. I thought I was the only one still grappling with this immense pain.
I saw your messages over the past months, but I didn’t fully absorb them until last week. I took the time to sit down and reflect on your words and the depth of your feelings.
Your son was mine for 15 years, but he was yours for 40. He was the child who transformed you into a mother when you were still young and figuring out life. He was the little boy you nursed and taught to wave “bye-bye.” He was the son who relied on you for comfort during sleepless nights and the child you took on adventures across North America.
He was the teenager who pushed boundaries and the young man you proudly sent off to college, knowing he would forge his own path. He was the one who brought you the joy of becoming a grandmother. I still remember the joy on your face when he shared that news with you.
But right now, I am overwhelmed. My children demand my attention constantly, and I’m struggling to manage my job. Sometimes, my grief feels so consuming that I find myself pulling over while driving, unable to see through my tears. I’ve harbored anger, believing my grief to be more profound than that of my friends or even yours.
Yet, this is not a competition. I am a mother too, and despite my children being young, I know that my love for them will remain unwavering as they grow. I recall a moment when my husband shared his understanding of parenthood, realizing that his own parents felt about him the same way he felt about our daughter—an enduring love.
I recognize that you, too, carry this love for Shawn. Even though I cannot fully grasp your pain, I understand that to you, he was always your little boy, as much as he was a man.
As he lay in that hospital bed, he called for you. I was there beside him, but he wanted you, too. It was difficult to share him in that moment, yet we both knew that’s what he needed. He loved me, I am aware of that, but I also know this—he loved you just as deeply.
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Take care, Judith.
Summary
In a heartfelt letter, a woman reaches out to her mother-in-law, Judith, expressing her sorrow over the loss of her husband, Shawn. She acknowledges the deep bond Judith shared with Shawn and reflects on her own overwhelming grief. Despite feeling that her pain is more intense, she recognizes that grief isn’t a competition. The letter emphasizes the enduring love both women have for Shawn and the importance of supporting one another during this challenging time.