I Miss You More

September 2, 2026

Dear Rob,

On August 28, 2026, Alex Warren released his album Wildchild.

We never listened to the same kind of music.

Actually, you hated almost all of my music choices.

Whenever we drove somewhere, we had a rule: whoever was driving got to pick the music.

For you, it was heavy metal.

Which I absolutely did not enjoy.

So eventually, you started listening to Korean music.

And then, during the last two years of your life, it was podcasts.

The kids often dreaded your podcasts.

But one thing about you—you didn’t change your mind.

Ever.

It is what it is.

God, I miss that about you.

I never thought I would.

I never thought I would miss something as stupid as arguing over music or being annoyed by your podcasts.

But grief does that.

It makes you miss the things you once took for granted.

The things you never thought you’d have to live without.

Since you died, music hits differently.

The lyrics seem to find the exact places in my heart that still hurt.

One word.

One phrase.

And suddenly, I’m crying.

Alex Warren’s music became a big part of our home after you died. Songs like Eternity and On My Mind were on repeat last summer.

So when I started listening to I Miss You More, I was a complete mess.

My chest felt like it was going to explode from the sadness.

My heart physically hurt.

My eyes hurt from crying.

I sat in the middle of the sunroom, listening to that song and thinking about you.

And I sobbed.

Not a few tears.

Not a quiet cry.

I sobbed like a baby.

The kind of sob where your whole body hurts.

The kind where you can’t catch your breath.

The kind where you wish you could somehow cry hard enough to make the person you’re missing walk through the door.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t coming home.

And that realization still destroys me.

The song says it perfectly: I miss you more.

The more time that passes, the more I miss you.

And I hate that.

Because everyone tells you that time is supposed to make things easier.

But nobody tells you that sometimes time makes you understand the permanence of it.

At first, I was surviving.

I was in shock.

I was numb.

I couldn’t fully understand that you were really gone.

Now I understand.

And somehow, understanding hurts more.

Because I know you’re not coming back.

I know I will never hear your voice coming from another room.

I know I will never hear the front door open and wonder if it’s you.

I know I will never hear you say, “Hi, sweetie.”

I know I will never hear you complain about the house being a mess.

And somehow, I would give anything to hear you complain.

Because that’s what I miss.

Your voice.

Your smile.

The way you held me.

The way you said my name.

Funny thing is, you hardly ever called me by my actual name.

You always called me “honey” or “sweetie.”

So whenever you actually said, “Jeaney,” I would tease you.

“So you know my name?”

Or I knew I was in trouble.

Now I would give anything to hear you say it.

Anything.

I miss our playful banter.

You were always the first person to tell everyone how sarcastic I was.

I loved teasing you.

I loved making jokes.

I loved making you laugh.

Even in serious moments, I would find a way to make you laugh or at least smirk.

And you would give me that look.

That parent look.

The one that said, Are you seriously doing this right now?

Sometimes you’d say, “This is not appropriate.”

And I’d say, “You are so serious. Party pooper.”

Because you were.

You were about 90% serious.

But that other 10%?

That was ours.

That was where we laughed.

That was where we were goofy.

That was where we were just us.

And I miss it.

I miss us.

I miss how close we really were.

We were each other’s everything.

When we first started dating, I hardly showed you my emotions.

I kept everything inside.

But somewhere between dating, marriage, raising kids, fighting, laughing, growing older, and building a life together, something changed.

You became my safe place.

You became the person I could tell everything to.

My deepest fears.

My worries.

The things I was embarrassed to say out loud.

The things I didn’t want anyone else to know.

Nothing felt too vulnerable with you.

Nothing felt too stupid.

Nothing felt like too much.

Because I trusted you.

And you trusted me.

I didn’t cry often.

And when I did, I tried to hold it in.

But you always told me it was okay to cry.

And when you said that, I would finally let go.

Then I would cry like a river.

You knew how to make me feel safe enough to fall apart.

And now you’re gone.

And sometimes I feel like I’ve become that little girl again—the one who learned not to show too much emotion.

Except now I have so much emotion that I don’t know where to put it.

Grief has changed the way I cry.

Sometimes I cry quietly.

Sometimes I cry underneath my blanket.

Sometimes I sit alone in a room and let the tears come because I don’t have the energy to stop them.

And sometimes the sadness is so physical that it feels like something is sitting on my chest.

Like my body knows you’re gone even when my mind still wants to look for you.

I’m open with the kids about grief.

I want them to know it’s okay to miss you.

It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to talk about you.

But sometimes when I miss you this much, I can’t let them see all of it.

Because I don’t want them to see just how badly their mom is hurting.

I don’t want them to feel like they need to take care of me.

So sometimes I wait until they’re asleep.

And then I cry.

Alone.

Because sometimes grief is just too big to share.

At my widow’s support group, I’ve been told over and over that grief comes in waves.

Ebb and flow.

Some days I’m okay.

Some days I’m not.

Today, I’m not.

Today, I miss my best friend.

I miss my husband.

I miss the man who knew me better than anyone.

I miss the person I could come home to without having to explain myself.

I miss coming home to my safe person.

The one person who never judged me.

The one person who called or texted throughout the day just because he wanted to hear my voice.

The person who knew my moods.

My facial expressions.

My sarcasm.

My silence.

The person who knew when something was wrong before I even said anything.

And then, in one horrible moment, that person was gone.

Just gone.

There was no goodbye.

No warning.

No chance to prepare my heart.

No chance to have one last conversation.

No chance to say, “Wait. I’m not ready.”

Because I wasn’t.

I still am not.

And I don’t think I ever will be.

When the one person who makes you feel completely safe is suddenly ripped out of your life, it changes you.

It changes the way you love.

It changes the way you trust.

It changes the way you see tomorrow.

Because tomorrow used to mean more time with you.

Now tomorrow means another day without you.

And sometimes that feels incredibly unfair.

I can be grateful for my life and still hate that you’re not in it.

I can laugh with the kids and then cry because you’re not here to hear what happened.

I can have a beautiful day and still feel the emptiness when I walk through the door.

I can smile.

I can work.

I can make dinner.

I can go to soccer.

I can celebrate birthdays.

I can take pictures.

I can laugh until my stomach hurts.

And still miss you so badly that my chest aches.

Gratitude doesn’t erase grief.

Moving forward doesn’t mean moving on.

And healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

I will carry you with me for the rest of my life.

But God, I wish I didn’t have to carry you this way.

I wish you were beside me.

I wish you were here.

I miss the kind and loving husband you were.

I miss your snoring.

I miss you sleep-talking.

I miss the way you protected me.

I miss you making us breakfast.

I miss you coming home from work.

I miss hearing you say, “Hi, sweetie,” to Viv.

You were always so gentle with her.

I miss the way you’d say, “Hi, Chucky. How was your day?”

I miss the way you looked at Anders with such pride.

You always gravitated toward him.

You understood him in a way no one else did.

I miss watching you be their dad.

I miss the way you protected your family fiercely.

And now?

I would give anything to hear you yell about the front door being open.

“Shut the door! The AC is on!”

I would probably laugh.

I might even roll my eyes.

And then I’d hug you.

I’d hold you so tightly.

And I would never let go.

Because now I understand something I never understood before.

The things we thought were annoying become precious when they’re gone.

I would give anything for one more stupid argument.

One more podcast.

One more disagreement about music.

One more sarcastic comment.

One more eye roll.

One more “You’re so serious.”

One more “This is not appropriate.”

One more “Hi, sweetie.”

One more “Hi, Chucky.”

One more look at the way you smiled at the kids.

One more morning beside you.

One more night hearing you snore.

One more ordinary Tuesday.

Just one.

I don’t need a vacation with you.

I don’t need some grand romantic gesture.

I don’t need a perfect day.

I just want one ordinary day back.

One completely boring, completely normal day where you are alive and I’m annoyed with you and you’re annoyed with me and the kids are making noise and someone left the front door open and you’re yelling about the AC.

I want the chaos.

I want the noise.

I want the arguments.

I want the laughter.

I want all of it.

Because I would give anything to have our ordinary life back.

We spend our entire lives believing there will be more.

More mornings.

More birthdays.

More holidays.

More arguments.

More laughter.

More chances to say “I love you.”

More time.

Until suddenly, there isn’t.

And that’s the part that still breaks me.

I don’t just miss the big moments.

I miss the tiny ones.

The moments I didn’t even know were moments.

You walking through the kitchen.

You sitting on the couch.

You making breakfast.

You calling me “honey.”

You complaining.

You laughing.

You being annoying.

You being serious.

You being you.

I miss the life I didn’t know I was living for the last time.

And I think that’s what grief really is.

Knowing there were thousands of moments you didn’t know were the last.

The last hug.

The last kiss.

The last laugh.

The last time you said my name.

The last time you walked through our house.

The last time you came home.

I didn’t know.

If I had known, I would have held you longer.

I would have memorized your face.

I would have listened more carefully to your voice.

I would have kissed you one more time.

I would have told you one more time how much I loved you.

But I didn’t know.

And now I have to live with that.

I sit here in the sunroom listening to a song about missing someone, and I realize there isn’t a song big enough for this kind of loss.

There aren’t enough words.

Because I don’t just miss you.

I miss the life that disappeared when you did.

I miss who I was when you were here.

I miss being someone’s wife.

I miss being able to say, “My husband.”

I miss knowing there was someone waiting for me at home.

I miss having my person.

And there is no replacement for that.

There is only learning how to live around the hole it left behind.

The seasons will keep changing.

The kids will keep growing.

Birthdays will come.

Holidays will come.

Life will keep happening.

And I will keep moving forward because I have to.

Because our kids need me.

Because there is still so much life ahead of me.

Because you would want me to live.

And I will.

I promise you I will.

But moving forward doesn’t mean leaving you behind.

I will carry you into every season.

Into every birthday.

Every soccer game.

Every school year.

Every milestone.

Every laugh.

Every hard day.

Every beautiful day.

You will always be part of our story.

You will always be their dad.

You will always be my husband.

And you will always be the person who taught me what it feels like to be completely known and completely loved.

But there is one thing I wish time could change.

I wish it could bring you back.

Because I don’t need time to make me miss you less.

I need time to give me one more moment with you.

One more conversation.

One more hug.

One more morning.

One more ordinary day.

One more chance to hear your voice.

One more chance to hear you call me “sweetie.”

One more chance to hear you say my name.

One more chance to tell you:

I love you.

And I miss you.

God, I miss you.

I miss you in ways I didn’t know were possible.

I miss you in the quiet.

I miss you in the chaos.

I miss you when I laugh.

I miss you when I cry.

I miss you when something good happens and you’re the first person I want to tell.

I miss you when something hurts and I instinctively want to reach for my phone.

I miss you when I walk through the door.

I miss you when I lie down at night.

I miss you when I wake up.

I miss you in every season.

Every month.

Every day.

And somehow, with every day that passes,

I miss you more.

I love you, Rob.

I always will.

Jeaney