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A few weeks back, I surprised my kids with a trampoline that they’ve been eagerly jumping on every day since it arrived. Between fits of laughter and catching their breath, they often ask why I didn’t get it for them sooner—especially during the early days of the pandemic when they first started begging for one. I share the honest reason: their dad didn’t want a trampoline messing up the grass. They accept this explanation and return to their joyful jumping, filled with memories of him tending to the lawn, blissfully unaware of the internal struggle I faced in making this decision. My husband, Jake, passed away three years ago, and saying “yes” to something he would have said “no” to feels like a betrayal.
When Jake died, I lost more than just my partner; I lost my confidant, my co-decision maker. He was the one who could provide a different perspective or challenge my thoughts, especially when it came to our kids. I also lost the shared responsibility of our choices—both the good and the bad. Now, every decision is mine to make, from the cereal my kids eat in the morning to the family values I want to instill. Yet, every choice is intertwined with Jake’s memory. I often find myself asking, “What would Jake do?”
In many instances, the answer comes easily. For example, sending my kids to sleepaway camp was a no-brainer for me. Although I never attended, it held great significance for Jake. He had always dreamed of sending our future kids to camp, and despite my anxiety, I know it’s what he would have wanted.
However, there are moments when I find myself stuck, unsure of what he would have wished for. My daughter is about to enter middle school, and she has the choice between honors math and a regular class. While I can imagine Jake encouraging her to take on the challenge because it builds character, I can also hear him advocating for her confidence to be prioritized in a more supportive environment. Similarly, my son wants to stop attending religious school. It wasn’t a major part of our lives, and I’m torn between honoring tradition and recognizing that his father might have said it was okay to quit.
These uncertainties leave me guessing at what Jake would have thought. I suspect that making room for his wishes and memories matters more than the exact decision itself. While he is no longer here, his voice still echoes in my mind, guiding me as best as it can.
As my kids grow and I face more decisions that Jake and I never had a chance to navigate together, I rely on my instincts. I believe that ultimately, what Jake would want most is for me and the kids to find happiness—even if it means sacrificing his beloved grass.
For more insights on navigating complex decisions in family life, check out this other blog post. If you’re looking into artificial insemination options, this resource is very helpful.