I felt your gaze burning into the back of my head throughout our dinner together. From the moment my kids and I were seated near you, I could sense you and your partner scrutinizing us. Honestly, I’ve become accustomed to the stares and unsolicited comments lately. I hear variations of “You’ve really got your hands full!” more times than I can count. Questions like “Are they all yours?” have become a daily occurrence—just last week, I faced that query twice at the airport alone. And the looks of disbelief when people ask, “How are they so close in age?” are almost routine now.
It’s evident that my 5-year-old’s accidental bump against your husband as she dashed to the restroom might have annoyed him. But honestly, I was just relieved she made it before our meal arrived. I imagine you disapproved of my decision to let them use their iPads at the table, or perhaps you were bothered by their noise and the squabbling over the turtle and pirate stickers the waitress provided.
You might have thought I should have been more strict with them, or that I raised my voice too much—I’ve never been the quiet type. You’re not the first to notice that, and you certainly won’t be the last.
As we prepared to leave, I heard you mutter to your husband, “And she has four kids—four!” while you both shared a disapproving glance. Your husband’s exaggerated turn to stare at us added insult to injury. It was painful to see your judgmental expressions aimed at my children as we walked by.
I recognize you probably saw me as an unmarried, overwhelmed woman with four boisterous kids. Trust me, I can be a judgmental person myself—it’s unfortunate, but I’m aware when others are eyeing me critically. So, let me clarify: you were entirely wrong about me.
Your disdainful looks stung deeply. I felt my heart race and my face flush with anger. You made me feel utterly inadequate and worthless. In the midst of the holiday chaos, I wanted to confront you, to put you in your place. Anyone who knows me can attest that my restraint in this moment was a monumental achievement—just ask anyone about the altercation I had with my neighbor recently.
But I didn’t say a word. I simply took my youngest by the hand and led all four of them out as they cheerfully chatted about the crescent moon and the alligators in the nearby pond.
If only you’d taken a moment to look beyond your judgment, you might have realized that I’m a woman trying to survive each day as best as I can. You’d understand why I decided to take my kids on a mini-vacation to Florida this week. It was an escape from the painful reminders of their father, who passed away last month. We went to that seafood restaurant simply for a welcome glass of wine and a decent meal—something other than the mac and cheese and Cincinnati chili we’ve been living on for weeks.
By 6:30 p.m., I was out of patience at that dinner table. I hadn’t showered, brushed my hair, or even put on a proper bra; I just threw on a tank top and rushed out the door to catch the sunset. The smiles and cooperation you saw in that beach photo didn’t reflect the chaos that led us there.
I was merely trying to hold myself together while watching another dad helping his child with their meal. I’ve been battling my grief, with bags under my eyes from sleepless nights. I didn’t want to show the redness around my eyes from tears shed earlier when I saw a father playing football with his son on the beach.
I’m struggling to maintain composure in front of my kids, avoiding conversations about how I’ll never again walk hand-in-hand with their father at sunset. Just days ago, I reluctantly placed my engagement ring and wedding band—engraved with “Home to You”—into a safe, locking away reminders of a love that feels achingly distant.
I’m just trying to make it through every single day. I’m still figuring out how to navigate being a widow and a single mother. I don’t know how to talk about their father or whether I should cry in front of my children. I’m unsure how to shield them from seeing other kids with their fathers or how to address the upcoming father-daughter dance at school—in January, no less, which is also their father’s birthday.
It’s overwhelming, and I know my kids sense my worries. So, please, cut me some slack. And extend that grace to my children, too. They didn’t ask for this difficult hand life dealt us. I apologize if you witnessed them at their most challenging moments or if I seemed like a disheveled sea creature that crawled out of Sarasota Bay.
What I regret most is not saying any of this to your face.
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Summary
In this heartfelt open letter, a mother addresses the judgment she faced from a woman at a restaurant while dining with her four children. The author reflects on the challenges of single motherhood and navigating grief after the loss of her husband. She expresses the desire for empathy and understanding instead of judgment, sharing her struggles and the realities of parenting alone.