The comment was innocent, devoid of malice or sorrow, spoken matter-of-factly, as though no one could challenge its truth. “Of course, they’re better at basketball than you. They have both a mom and a dad.”
My eight-year-old son, trying to comfort his older sister after she secured third place in a basketball shoot-out during the season’s first practice, was attempting to explain why her countless hours of practice hadn’t catapulted her to the top. He wanted her to see that she shouldn’t feel disheartened by her performance because she was at a disadvantage—only having a mom.
At their father’s memorial, after heartfelt eulogies shared by family and friends, my children had the opportunity to speak. My son chose to remain silent, but my daughter, just seven years old, approached the podium. She looked out at the 600 attendees who had gathered to honor a man taken from us too soon and said, “My daddy liked to play basketball with me.” Then she stepped back into my embrace, and the three of us—my daughter, my son, and I—walked behind the coffin of the man who was meant to be our family’s protector and guide, now reduced to a collection of cherished memories.
Since that day, my daughter has become obsessed with basketball, striving to improve and reach the level of her father as she remembers him. During the first practice of the new season, she came in third—an improvement, but not enough for her. To her, basketball is more than a game; it’s a tribute to her father, and third place simply didn’t cut it.
I didn’t see her reaction in the car ride home after my son’s attempt at comforting her. I didn’t know if her eyes filled with tears or if her head hung low, burdened by a grief that sometimes feels too heavy for a child to bear. But I heard the silence in the backseat, a silence powerful enough to hush my thoughts about dinner, homework, and bills, scattering them like leaves in the wind.
Nearly two years have passed since that funeral—two years of navigating solo parenting with two grieving children, who sometimes ask me just as I’m shutting their bedroom door for the night, “Why did our dad have to die?” The right words to say in those heavy, quiet moments remain elusive. The comforting wisdom I seek is tucked away in a book on grief I haven’t had the heart to read, as my own sorrow has stolen my ability to focus for more than a few moments. So, I revert to the words I’ve always used, the ones that have shaped my relationship with my kids since I first had to explain that their daddy wouldn’t be coming home.
I told them the truth. Yes, they were at a disadvantage. I explained that with two parents, one could handle dinner while the other practiced jump shots. I confirmed that yes, with two parents, one could fix the leaky faucet while the other helped with math homework, allowing time for a family basketball game. I admitted that our family foundation was irrevocably shattered.
Then, I told my daughter how proud I was of her dedication during the off-season; her third-place finish was a cause for celebration, especially considering how she struggled with the ball last season.
We moved on to other topics, both kids feeling satisfied—my son with his accurate observations and my daughter with her progress.
However, the truth I had shared lingered in my mind like a jagged puzzle piece that wouldn’t fit anywhere. This time, the truth didn’t feel like the correct answer—or at least not the complete one.
After homework was done, dinner was prepared and cleared away, and evening routines had unfolded, I sat down for the first time that day and tried to quiet my racing thoughts. I realized why my words hadn’t resonated. Yes, my children lack a father and, therefore, face certain disadvantages, but I wish I had told them that every child on that court, even those with two parents—the ones who came in first and second—also carries invisible struggles that might feel like disadvantages, both in basketball and in life. I wish I had conveyed that pushing forward, putting in that extra effort despite challenges, is a remarkable strength that many adults fail to muster. I wish I had said, yes, our family is fractured in a way that can’t be repaired, but sometimes the strongest structures are built upon imperfections, with bricks laid not to disguise the cracks, but to support them.
I wish I’d offered a deeper truth. But like countless other mothers, I find myself parenting from a place of disadvantage, constructing a life on a foundation that isn’t perfect. Maybe what truly matters is that we’re all continuing to build, laying new bricks with each passing day. Perhaps the most important thing is that with every brick we add, we’re learning how to create something that could one day become unbreakable.
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Summary: In the aftermath of losing a spouse, a mother reflects on the challenges of solo parenting and the unexpected ways her husband’s absence is felt in her children’s lives. She grapples with her children’s grief and the complexities of navigating their emotions while trying to instill strength and resilience. The author wishes she had expressed a more nuanced truth about the struggles that every child faces, regardless of their family structure, while recognizing the importance of building a supportive environment despite the cracks in their foundation.