And so it begins.
People are stepping over the boundaries that were firmly established when you were alive, as if they never existed at all. It’s amusing and disheartening to realize that, now that you’re gone, I’m treated more like one of our children than a capable adult. It’s as though your death has led others to believe that I can’t handle things on my own, and the kind of comments I’ve received since your passing are nothing short of astonishing—many of them coming from other women.
Take, for example, an email I received from a so-called friend. There’s no way anyone would’ve dared to send such a brazen message when you were here, weighing in on deeply personal issues like how to raise our children or whether we should sell our house.
Yesterday, while checking my email for messages from our realtor, I stumbled upon this unexpected correspondence. I was surprised to see a message from her, especially since we usually communicate informally by phone or text.
The email began with an apology for overstepping a boundary she had crossed a few days prior, assuring me that she didn’t want to add any undue pressure or stress during this unbearable time of grief. Yet, in her very next paragraph, she did just that.
She had visited our home briefly the night before and managed to observe my youngest son for about 10 minutes. I use the term “observed” loosely, as it’s quite a stretch to say that a 17-year-old boy engages in meaningful conversation with women over 40. During those fleeting moments, she concluded that I needed to better support my son’s grieving process and decided to share her unsolicited insights with me.
One of her assertions was that our son was “mortified” by my public writing about your death and my grieving experience. Naturally, I asked him about this, and as I suspected, he was surprised. His response was, “Oh? Have you been writing about Dad’s death? Good for you! But Mom, don’t take it personally, I don’t read your stuff! I mostly just check the SparkNotes for my AP English assignments!”
So, she was mistaken. You and I both knew that our boys prefer to remain blissfully unaware of my blogging endeavors.
Remember last year when the “mamarazzi” were all around the teens, snapping photos before the Winter Formal? Our son overheard mothers saying, “That’s Emily’s son!” and waving at him, telling him to say hi to me. He tried to look embarrassed, but I think he secretly enjoyed the attention. Yet, did he ever take the time to read my content? No.
I wonder if I could pay the folks over at SparkNotes to summarize my blog posts. At 600-800 words, they’re already concise, but apparently not for a teenage boy!
Then my friend went on to express her “concerns” about the possibility of selling our home. She suggested that it seemed like I was trying to “escape my memories” by selling it too soon, insisting that our son was desperately trying to hold onto his memories of you. In her unsolicited opinion, it would be wise to wait 6-12 months before making any decisions regarding the house.
I found this interesting for several reasons:
- I’m not the one eager to sell our home; our son expresses sadness about living here and pushes me daily to contact a realtor.
- Our children didn’t grow up here; we’ve only lived here for 5 years.
- She spent a mere 10 minutes with him, and we hadn’t even discussed selling the house in her presence. It was the longest stretch of time that week he hadn’t brought it up.
I love this house, but I will sell it if it makes our kids unhappy. My friend completely misread the situation. It’s remarkable that anyone would suggest I would sell anything to ESCAPE memories of you. The last thing I want to do is ESCAPE those memories. If I wanted to escape, I’d have to sell our children and parts of myself. You are not in this house; you live within us.
From the moment I first laid eyes on you, you were a part of me. I can’t escape your memory, nor would I ever want to. Your essence is carried in our daughters’ expressions, our oldest son’s features, our youngest son’s thoughtful nature, and our middle child’s resilience.
You are present in every ounce of wisdom and spirit our children possess, and in their ability to navigate the world with grace and goodness.
This house is merely a structure where we shared our lives, but it doesn’t define us. Even though I often struggle to find purpose without you, I remind myself to put our children first. Because those kids… they are us.