Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Lately, I’ve been watching my favorite show, Parenthood. When I first watched it, I remember telling you how much I wanted a family like that. Not a perfect family, but a close one. The kind where siblings fight but still show up for each other, where they have each other’s backs, love each other’s children, come together for family dinners, take trips together, and show up for every school event and sporting activity. The kind of family where you never have to wonder who is going to be there because they simply are.

That was always my dream.

And it was ours.

When we dated and eventually got married, we talked about having that kind of family. We both wanted something we didn’t really have growing up. I never had a close relationship with my brother. For most of my childhood, I thought being treated like the annoying little sister was simply what brothers did. He yelled at me, and I assumed that was normal until I got older and saw how other brothers treated their sisters. I kept thinking that eventually, as we got older, something would change. It never really did.

When Anders was born, I saw a different side of my brother. He adored him. He loved him. For a while, I thought maybe this was the beginning of something different. Maybe our families would finally become close. But then he got married and had his first daughter, and somehow our kids seemed to disappear from the picture. You hated that. You couldn’t understand how someone could love one child in the family while seemingly forgetting the others.

Your childhood carried its own version of that hurt. You had a brother and a sister, and you were always honest with me about your relationship with your brother. He had put you through hell. Even after he apologized years later, you told me there were things you couldn’t forgive because of how much pain and chaos had come from it.

Your relationship with your sister was different. You had a soft spot for her because you had helped take care of her growing up. But as you both got older, you weren’t particularly close. You would text her and sometimes wait days for a response. You acted like it didn’t bother you, but I knew better. There were wounds from childhood that never completely disappeared.

That was one of the things we understood about each other. We both had families, but we both grew up wanting a kind of closeness we didn’t have.

So we made our own promise.

Our kids would be different.

They would grow up close. They would be best friends. They would take care of each other. They would love each other’s spouses and children. They would show up. That was one of your biggest wishes, and it was mine too.

And we actually created it.

Every night, we ate together. We watched television together. We went to family events together. Our kids loved being home with us. We had our own little world, and it worked. We didn’t need a huge extended family because we had built something that felt complete.

You and me.

Our kids.

Our home.

Our traditions.

That was enough.

Which is why it has been so difficult to watch that little world change.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to accept is that I don’t have the extended family support I once hoped for. My parents have been wonderful. They show up for the kids, check in, send messages, give extra hugs, and help however they can. I am grateful for them.

But my brother and his wife are no longer part of our lives, and that was a decision I made.

Watching what you went through in the months before you died changed the way I looked at family. You spent so much time hoping certain relationships would change, hoping people would understand you differently, and being hurt when they didn’t. I realized I couldn’t keep waiting for someone to become the person I needed them to be. I couldn’t keep putting our kids in situations where they were disappointed either.

If I have to cheer for our kids on my own, I’ll do it.

If I have to create the traditions on my own, I’ll do it.

If I have to be the one making sure they feel supported and loved, I’ll do it.

I wish I had told you that sooner.

Because you tried to tell me.

A few months before your death, when you were fighting with your parents, you told me you were afraid they would talk about you to other family members and create a false narrative. You worried they would make you the bad person, the problem, the one everyone blamed.

Looking back, I realize how deeply that fear affected you.

And I also realize you weren’t imagining it.

At your funeral, I noticed the people who stopped to acknowledge me and talk about you. Your Olenchak aunts, Grandma Barb, Jen, Aunt Deb, Amanda, and Danny. I will always remember that kindness.

But I also remember the people who didn’t ask how I was doing.

Who didn’t ask about the kids.

Who didn’t say your name.

Then came Christmas.

I saw your parents, and everything seemed to carry on as though nothing had happened. Your pictures were gone. No one said your name. No one saved a chair for you.

That moment told me more than anyone could have explained.

And I thought about you.

About all the things you had told me.

About the family you wished you had.

And then I thought about our children.

They deserved better than silence.

They deserved to know that their dad mattered.

They deserved to hear his name.

They deserved to remember him without feeling like his absence was something everyone had to avoid talking about.

Nobody really prepares you for how much you want family to show up during something like this. Sometimes it’s not about grand gestures. It’s someone saying, “I’ll take the kids.” Someone coming over to help with the yard. Someone checking in. Someone bringing dinner. Someone sitting beside you and simply being there.

Those things matter.

But perhaps the biggest realization I’ve had is that we never actually needed a huge family.

We were okay with just us.

Our family was the most important thing in the world to both of us.

And I think that’s why I feel such a strong responsibility now to protect what we built.

I can’t control who chooses to be involved in our lives. I can’t make people show up. But I can decide what our family will look like.

And I know exactly what I want.

I want our kids to remain close.

I want them to know that disagreements don’t give you permission to destroy a relationship. I want them to understand that words matter. When our boys fight and say something hurtful, I call it out. We talk about what was said, why it was wrong, how it made the other person feel, and what it means to apologize and take responsibility.

I don’t want them growing up carrying words that were never addressed.

I don’t want them wondering whether their siblings will be there when life gets hard.

I want them to know that family protects the relationship, not the argument.

Because I know how much you wished someone had done that for you.

And someday, I hope I get to see the family we imagined.

I hope our kids grow up, get married, and have children of their own. I hope our house becomes the place everyone comes to on Sundays. I want the family dinners. The holidays. The school events. The sports games. The vacations. The grandchildren running through the house. I want too many people around the table and not enough chairs.

I want the Parenthood family.

Not because it’s perfect, but because they show up.

That was always the dream.

And I will keep working toward it.

I will cherish the people God has placed in our lives who have shown up for us. The ones who remember you. The ones who love our children. The ones who make room for us at their tables and allow us to make room for them at ours.

I’ve learned that family isn’t always defined by blood.

Sometimes it’s defined by presence.

By consistency.

By love.

By who shows up when it matters.

And I know you wanted that more than almost anything.

So I’ll keep building it.

I’ll keep bringing our kids together.

I’ll keep making the holidays special.

I’ll keep creating Sunday dinners and traditions and memories.

I’ll keep saying your name.

I’ll keep reminding them how much you loved them and how much you wanted this for them.

And someday, when our house is full of our children and grandchildren, when everyone is talking too loudly and laughing too hard, when there are more people than chairs and someone is eating at the kitchen counter, I hope I can look around and realize that we did it.

The family we didn’t have growing up became the family we created.

The dream didn’t disappear.

It just became my responsibility to carry it forward.

I wish you were here to build the rest of it with me.

I wish you were sitting at that crowded table.

I wish you could look around and see what we started.

But I’ll make sure our kids know that this was always your dream too.

And I’ll keep building it.

For them.

For us.

For you.