And so it begins.
Since the loss of my partner, I’ve felt as if I’ve become invisible, reduced to the status of a child in the eyes of others. People seem to have forgotten the strong, capable adult I am, and it’s disheartening to see how they tiptoe across the boundaries we once shared. The unsolicited advice and comments I’ve received since your passing have been astonishing and, frankly, a step backward for women’s empowerment. Tragically, many of these remarks have come from women who should know better.
Take, for instance, the email I received from a longtime friend. It’s hard to believe that anyone would have the audacity to send such an intrusive message regarding my personal life — how to handle my children’s grief or whether I should sell our home — when just a few short weeks ago, we were a united front.
When I checked my email yesterday, I was actually looking for a message from the realtor who was set to show our house. Instead, I found this unexpected email from my friend. Typically, we communicate through phone calls or texts, so I was surprised to see an email pop up.
Her message started with an apology for overstepping her boundaries a few days prior, assuring me that she wouldn’t want to add any stress during this unbearable time. Ironically, her next paragraph did precisely that. She managed to elevate herself to the forefront of those who have inadvertently made my grief heavier.
Just the night before, she had come over and spent all of 8 minutes with my youngest son. I use the term “quasi-visited” because it’s hard to imagine a 17-year-old boy genuinely engaging with women over 40. In that brief time, she decided to assess how I should manage our son’s grief and felt compelled to share her thoughts via email.
She expressed that my son was “mortified” by my decision to write publicly about my grief. Naturally, I asked him later, and he was surprised, stating, “Oh? You’ve been blogging about Dad’s death? Good for you! Just so you know, I don’t really read your stuff. I mostly just skim through the summaries for school!”
So, it turns out, my friend was mistaken about my son’s feelings. He and I have both known for some time that our boys are intentionally oblivious to my blog content.
Remember last year, before Winter Formal, when the “mamarazzi” were snapping pictures of the kids? Our son heard mothers remarking, “That’s Jessica’s son!” as they boarded the party bus, and while he pretended to be embarrassed, he secretly enjoyed it. But actually reading my work? Nope.
Next, my friend went on to voice her “concerns” about me possibly selling our house. She claimed it seemed like I was trying to escape my memories of my partner by selling our home too soon, asserting that our son was desperately trying to hold onto his memories of his father. In her unsolicited opinion, it would be wiser to wait 6-12 months before making that decision.
This struck me as odd for several reasons:
- I’m not the one eager to sell the house; my son is the one who finds it sad to live here and constantly urges me to contact a realtor.
- Our children didn’t grow up in this house; we’ve only lived here for five years.
- She spent just 8 minutes with my son, yet she believes she can read his mind? I need more than a few minutes to figure out what he wants for dinner.
- We hadn’t even discussed selling the house while she was here; in fact, it was the longest stretch that week without him bringing it up.
While I do have an attachment to this house, I am willing to sell it if it causes my kids distress. My friend simply misread the situation entirely.
What astonished me most was her suggestion that I would try to sell anything to ESCAPE memories of my partner. The last thing I want to do is run from those cherished memories. If I were to escape, it would mean parting with pieces of myself and our children. My partner isn’t physically present in this house; he lives on in our family.
From the moment I first saw him grilling in the restaurant where we worked, I knew he was special. It took some time for him to return my feelings, but when he did, he loved me fiercely. As Rod Stewart wisely sang, “You’re in my heart and in my soul.” I couldn’t escape those memories even if I wanted to — which I don’t.
His spirit thrives in our children, from our daughters’ features to our sons’ sharp minds and passion for life. Everything about him and our shared love lives on through them. This house is just a structure; it isn’t our essence.
Even on days when I struggle to find meaning without him, I remind myself that our children are a living testament to our love. They are the embodiment of us — a beautiful legacy.