When my father passed away, I found myself telling well-meaning friends, “This is something we all face at some point. I just happen to be the first in line.” Suddenly, I was thrust into an unwelcome group: Parents of Small Children Who Have Lost a Parent. With my children only 4 years old and 9 months, I was acutely aware of my status as an unwilling member. It was a profoundly isolating experience. While I don’t intend to minimize anyone else’s grief, navigating my father’s death while caring for young kids felt like its own unique torment—one that others simply can’t grasp unless they’ve lived it. Just as those without kids often don’t understand the challenges of parenthood until they experience it firsthand.
My father was relatively young at 67, and losing him at this juncture in my life felt tragically premature. I spent three weeks watching him fade away during the holiday season. My children, blissfully unaware, still had their routines and the joyous expectations that Christmas brings. There were cookies to bake, gifts to wrap, and holiday traditions to uphold. I couldn’t halt their lives, and as their primary caregiver, I had to maintain the same level of support and comfort they were used to.
Honestly, I preferred to keep things running smoothly. In my mind, maintaining a sense of normalcy might somehow bring my father back. More importantly, as mothers, we set the emotional tone in our households. If I was upset, they felt it. If I panicked, they panicked. If I withdrew, they were lost. I wanted them to focus solely on whether Santa would visit. So, I donned my brave face, managing my responsibilities both at home and at the hospital with them none the wiser.
However, the weeks following my father’s death revealed a harsh reality: my own needs were pushed even further aside. One undeniable truth emerged: death, grief, and small children simply do not coexist harmoniously. My life transformed irrevocably, yet my responsibilities remained unchanged. I was overwhelmed with the demands of parenting—naps, meals, diaper changes, and a mountain of laundry. The little space I had for myself vanished as I juggled thank-you notes, legal paperwork, and clearing out my father’s belongings.
When people asked if I was okay, I replied, “I have to be. There’s no other option.” And that was true. Life continued, and I had to set a steady course for my children. They weren’t trying to undermine my grieving process; they were just kids, and I was determined to shield their innocence.
What I didn’t share when asked about my well-being was how excruciating it was to process my father’s death alongside raising my kids. No one I knew was in this club, and while some suggested that my children might serve as a healthy distraction, they were right—my daughters brought me immeasurable joy. Each laugh and hug became more precious.
My father had a way of driving me crazy when I was growing up—like every parent does—but as a grandparent, he was a marvel. He would engage deeply with my kids, playing for hours without needing a break. He’d read the same book repeatedly with unflagging enthusiasm and celebrate every silly joke they told. He cared deeply about their milestones, often sending gifts and clothes that were a size too big, anticipating their growth.
Now, every time I witness a milestone—like my kids walking for the first time or losing a tooth—I instinctively reach for my phone to share the moment with him. And then I remember I can’t. The ache of his absence can almost overshadow the joy of their achievements.
These reminders are relentless. I find myself clinging to toys he bought, sighing when my daughter asks if it’s Grandpa on the phone, or tearing up when my youngest wears an outfit he had chosen. Each day, the reminders stack up, and I flinch when I hear people say, “Time will help heal your wounds.” If anything, time amplifies the pain. It serves as a reminder of everything my father has missed since his passing.
Time doesn’t heal; it simply extends the intervals between waves of grief that crash unexpectedly, forcing me to confront my loss anew.
One day, I stumbled upon old black-and-white photos of my father as a child. As I flipped through them, tears streamed down my face. My eldest walked in and asked why I was crying. “I’m looking at pictures of Grandpa,” I replied. After a moment, she said, “I miss him.” And that’s when it hit me: this grief was not mine alone. My father’s death had woven itself into the fabric of my children’s lives as well. No matter how much I tried to shield them, this reality was now part of their story.
As I looked at those pictures of a little boy, I couldn’t help but ponder the fragility of life. The thought of my children enduring the same anguish I had faced terrified me, but I selfishly wished to spare them that pain. Since my father’s passing, two of my friends have also joined this painful club, and I ache for them, knowing what lies ahead. I have no sage advice to offer. All I can do is cherish the moments with my kids and husband, remembering that while a part of me is forever altered, I must nurture what remains. I lean into the joy my children radiate, reminding myself daily that they deserve the best of what’s left of me.
Ultimately, in the face of loss, we strive to find light amid the shadows, and perhaps that is the greatest gift we can give to ourselves and to our children.
For those looking to understand more about the complexities of parenting and loss, check out this insightful resource on toddler health and safety, as well as our blog post about home insemination kits for valuable information on starting a family.