After my husband died, I thought that holidays would be hard. I cringed a little before Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Father’s Day. But I found that I was wrong.
Milestones are the hardest moments.
Our children were 2 and 4 years old when he took his life. Not only did suicide rob me of a husband, rob the boys of a father … It robbed him out of watching and experiencing his boys grow up.
He never got to see the first days of school. He never got to be the father encouraging his son to pick up his bike and try again. Every time either boy has shown me a new ability with pride, there’s a small pain my heart that goes along with it.
Their father will never get to see any of this. Nor will our children ever be able to see their father beam with pride when they get their drivers license. They won’t be able to wave at their dad when they graduate high school.
The pain is two-fold in that I mourn for the memories that will never come to fruition and also for the losses my boys continuously receive.
I hate that our oldest always tries to dig deep and try to remember the choppy memories of him and his dad. I hate that our youngest makes up memories to feel included.
The loss of a loved one isn’t just felt for a small amount of time. It continues throughout a lifetime.