Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Something strange happened tonight. It’s Homecoming week. Our son, along with his friends, went out to eat in Woodbury, then they planned to go to the school dance and a get-together afterward.

I don’t know how to feel or even what to think, Robert. If you were here, I would be stressing out to you, telling you that I need to drive Anders to dinner, the dance, and even the party because I’m an anxious mom when it comes to my firstborn.

As I told you before, the helicopter mom has landed. Yet part of me desperately wants to get back to being that helicopter mom. If you were here, you’d say, “Stop worrying, honey.” And I’d say, “But I’m so worried!” You’d probably shake your head, laugh, and remind me that he’s going to be fine.

But I don’t get to confide in you anymore. I don’t get to tell you that I’m worried and scared and have you put your arms around me and say, “He’ll be okay.” That’s the part that hurts the most. Our oldest is growing up right before my eyes, and I’m experiencing it alone.

You aren’t here to witness this version of Anders—the version who is becoming more confident, taking photography, getting recognized for his work, finding his people, making friends, going to dances, going to parties, and slowly figuring out who he is. You would be so proud of him.

And I know you would have that little smirk on your face because, two years ago, when I confided in you that I was worried about our oldest, you looked at me, motioned for me to sit down on the couch like you did countless times, reached for my hand, and I was already preparing myself for you to tell me to cut the umbilical cord. Instead, you said, “Once Anders gets his driver’s license, he’ll be out and about. He’ll meet friends. Don’t worry about him. I was just like that. And guess what? I met this cute girl, and my life changed for the better.”

You definitely knew your son. Your twin. Your pride and joy. I’m the emotional and nurturing mom. I kiss the owies. I always have. I give the hugs. I make sure our kids feel safe and loved. But when it came to everyday life and teenage life, you were the logical parent. You saw the bigger picture. You believed in giving the kids room to grow, to figure themselves out, and to enjoy life without their mother asking 200 questions.

And now, two years later, I’m watching your prediction come true. Anders is finding his way. He’s finding his friends. He’s discovering things he loves. He’s growing into himself. And that realization is both beautiful and gut-wrenching because you aren’t here to see it.

You were right, Rob. You knew him. You knew he would get there. I just wish you were here so we could sit on that couch again, hold hands, and talk about the amazing young man he is becoming.

So tonight, I needed you here. I needed you to reassure me that Anders will be okay. And maybe, just maybe, remind me that I will be okay, too. Instead, I’m pacing back and forth around this house, worrying about a kid who is probably having the time of his life while his mother is losing her mind.

This is my new life. Watching our babies grow up without you beside me. Learning to trust that they’ll be okay. Learning to let go, even when every instinct in me wants to hold on. And honestly, Robert, it sucks. I just wish you were here to see the other side of Anders. I wish you were here to see the young man you always knew was in there. I just wish you were here.