You would be 55 today.
Most years, this day slips past—lost in the rush of preparing to fly, preparing to see our family, our girls. But years like this one, when I’m not traveling and the day arrives quietly, it’s harder. When I’m still—when nothing and no one is there to distract me—grief sneaks in on quiet feet and whispers in my ear about all the might-have-beens we could have had.
I know there are an infinite number of paths we might have taken. An infinite number of futures. We didn’t have a perfect marriage or a perfect relationship, but perfect couples don’t exist. We fought for what we had. I held hope, even when it was dangerous—when it was toxic—to do so. Hope that we’d find our way back to each other. That even if we weren’t together, we’d still be a family. That there’d always be Sunday dinners and silly games at the table. That I’d forever be reminding you we were raising “young ladies” in response to your cheerful, “Good one!”
I’d give anything to have those moments back. To have you to turn to. To have you there when the big moments come—the family moments, the milestones. And for the little ones too. The everyday conversations about TV, work, or dinner.
I wish you were here to see that Brit is this amazing woman who takes after you. She has a heart the size of the universe and wants nothing more than connection. She holds us together. She remembers every good thing that’s happened to us. She keeps you alive through her stories—your jokes, your daddy-isms, your laughter. Every detail. She’s the historian of the best parts of you.
Angela carries your anxiety, your fierceness, and your fight. She’s made choices that are terrifying—and brave. She found someone who worships her. You would adore him. He’s strong and steady and loves her the way you would have wanted. They just got married. It was what she wanted more than anything in the world—and she did it. She made sure you were there. She left a seat for you. She surrounded herself with your presence. And mine.
I’m sure you know—you have a granddaughter now. Waves. She’s everything. Smart, sassy, strong, loving. I can picture you with her so clearly. You were always magic with kids. And she would have been yours, completely and totally.
And I’m still me. Just a better version of the me you knew. Your loss forced me to grow. Forced me to reflect on what I wanted from the world. It took me a while to figure out how to navigate life without you. A while before I stopped reaching for the phone to call you. And even longer before I stopped scanning crowds for your face.
My biggest fear was always losing you. So many of our arguments circled back to that. “I didn’t sign up for single parent!” I’d say. I just never thought I’d lose you like this. I didn’t sign up to do this alone. But you left me to do just that.
Still, I feel you now and then. I talk to you all the time. I yell at you sometimes, too. It’s not fair that you’re not here. It’s not fair that we don’t get to have you in our lives anymore. That we don’t get to celebrate our successes or cry over our failures with you. That we don’t get to hear your wisdom, or your wit, or your wonderfully ridiculous laugh. That we’ll never rest our heads against your chest while you wrap us in your strong, caring arms. You always gave the best hugs.
But even with all of that—I still carry you. We all do.
And today, especially, I miss you.
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