How many children do you have?
For a parent in mourning, this question, which might appear as benign as asking about one’s hometown or profession, sends a chill through my core and leaves me momentarily speechless.
Should I share the truth? Do I tell a stranger that I have two precious daughters with me here, while my third daughter was taken away from me when she was just three weeks old? Should I say three or take the simpler route and just say two?
I am not suggesting you refrain from asking. After three years of living with the loss of my daughter, Emily, I’ve come to accept that this inquiry will always be part of my reality, and yes, it stings each time. It feels like a raw wound being prodded or a blow to my gut. Yet, I hold no anger towards anyone asking. Instead, I am filled with a deep, abiding sadness.
This question is not going anywhere, nor is my grief. The day Emily left this world left my life in ruins, and although I strive to move forward, to function, and even to smile like everyone else, beneath that facade lies a heart forever broken—an ache I carry always.
So when you ask me how many children I have, that’s why I often pause and my expression turns blank. You might think something is wrong with me, but in that moment, an internal struggle unfolds—should I opt for the answer that keeps the conversation light and avoids any awkwardness, or should I reveal the truth? It’s a conflict between protecting your comfort and honoring Emily’s memory.
It’s not solely about how strangers pose this question; it also manifests in the heart-wrenching moments I encounter when filling out forms that ask about the number of children I have. It’s present in my conversations about parenting my two little ones, and it resurfaces when I seek a babysitter for them.
Each time I write “two” instead of “three,” a piece of my heart shatters. Yet, the reality remains that I am raising two daughters, not three. Nothing can turn back time to change that.
Do I find solace in knowing that Emily’s twin sister, Sarah, is flourishing? Absolutely. However, it is undeniably challenging to look at her and see the physical reminder of the sibling that should have been.
I wish I could articulate my feelings more eloquently when asked about my children. But after three and a half years, I still struggle to find the right words. There’s no perfect way to respond, yet I long for it to be less agonizing.
I wish things had unfolded differently. I wish I could embrace three little girls on the couch, shower them with kisses, and read bedtime stories together. I wish I didn’t have an urn on my mantel or Emily’s death certificate tucked away in a cabinet. I wish I didn’t have a memorial garden filled with blooms and plants in her honor. I wish that hearing the name “Emily” or the term “twin” didn’t slice through me like a knife. I wish for so many things, but ultimately, I must focus on loving my husband and my two daughters here on earth to the best of my ability.
If there is any purpose in Emily’s passing, perhaps it is to guide me toward helping others who find themselves in this heart-wrenching situation. We may not have all the answers to your questions, but we are indeed trying—trying to survive, trying to find happiness, and trying to navigate this tumultuous journey.
So please, extend your patience and compassion to grieving parents who face this challenging question. It is the kindest gesture you can offer in the midst of unimaginable sorrow.
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Summary:
This heartfelt essay, penned by Jenna Monroe, delves into the profound grief of a parent who has lost a child. It explores the emotional turmoil that arises when faced with the innocuous question, “How many children do you have?” The author shares her internal conflict between honesty and the desire to maintain comfort in social interactions, shedding light on the enduring pain of loss and the necessity of compassion towards grieving parents.