Grief, Grace and Growing

10/5/26

Dear Rob,

Just like that, it’s October already. After I returned from my work trip, I got right back into reality. I returned to work, and Vivian had her jamboree on Saturday. Her team did awesome—they won both games. And your daughter played exactly how you always asked the kids to play. She hustled. She scored. She made beautiful passes. She fell and got right back up. I was so proud of our daughter, and yet so incredibly sad that you weren’t there to see it all. To cheer for her. To watch her play. To give her that big hug afterward. Although you weren’t there, so many parents cheered for our girl, and that warmed my heart.

Then Sunday rolled around. Charlie had his last Fall Ball games. If you were here, you would love this team. The boys all play for different teams, yet somehow they all get along like brothers. You would love the coaches, too. I was looking forward to enjoying those last two games. But the morning started off rough.

Charlie was acting out, and I had to put my foot down. I became so flustered and upset with myself that I got to the point where I had to yell. I hated it. I hated seeing my son cry. And as we drove to the baseball field, I thought about you.

I remembered all those mornings when I would call you at work to tell you the boys had acted out. The first thing you would say was, “What are you going to do about that, Mom?” You said it because you knew I was the gentle mom. You knew I didn’t have it in me to yell at the kids. You knew that I would try to reason with them, talk them through it, give them another chance. And you were always the one who could step in when I couldn’t.

I also thought about how, when the boys acted out, you always had my back. You made it very clear that disrespect was never tolerated, especially toward me. You protected me. You supported me. You made sure the kids knew that Mom deserved respect. And when I said the words “he was mean to me,” and I cried, you jumped right in to defend me.  I miss having you by my side and knowing that you would go into the battle with me. I miss that more than you will ever know.

What hurts me the most is parenting alone. You believed so strongly in Mom and Dad raising their kids together. You stressed the importance of having a father in a child’s life and the damage that can come when a child grows up without one. And I think about that every single day. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. Our kids needed their dad here. They needed you to guide them, teach them about life, correct them, encourage them, protect them, and simply be present. They need their dad.

One of my biggest fears as a single mom is being judged—not just for how I raise our kids, but for how our kids behave. I worry that people will judge them because they don’t have a father here. I worry that they will look at our family and see what is missing instead of seeing how hard we are trying. Your worst fear came true for me, and it hurts in ways I don’t know how to explain.

But then I got to the baseball field. I talked to Priscilla, and somehow, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. My sadness started to lift. My parents also surprised us at the game, and my mom and dad were so proud of Charlie. You know how much my dad loves baseball. My mom also got to meet so many of my baseball family, and she was so thankful for them—for the love, kindness, and support they have shown me and our babies.

I stood there and realized again that even though you are gone, we are surrounded by people who are helping me carry what I never imagined I would have to carry alone.

Charlie had beautiful hits and made great plays. You were always so proud of him when he played shortstop. Our boy is growing up. He is finding his way in baseball, finding his confidence, and becoming his own person. I wish you could see him.

Then, during the last game, our Charlie Bear got injured. He didn’t cry. He has grown so much since you died. As he held his hand and his thumb became very swollen, again I thought of you.

You had the most beautiful hands. I told you that over and over for more than 20 years. Your hands were strong, but they carried so much history. You jammed your fingers so many times playing sports. Your also broke your finger too.  You knew what it was like to have swollen, injured hands. And now, this is Charlie’s second hand injury.

The first time, I was so scared to bring Charlie to the doctor. But this time, I found myself grateful—not that he was injured, of course, but grateful for our baseball family. The coaches immediately ran out to Charlie. You always told me never to run onto the field. “Wait,” you would say. I didn’t even know he was injured before Coach Kevin brought him over. The moms immediately volunteered to take Vivian. Everyone stepped in. No one made me ask. I wasn’t alone.

Charlie has a broken thumb—the same hand where he fractured his left pinky. I’m thankful it wasn’t worse. I’m thankful Fall Ball is over and that he isn’t missing baseball. He will miss soccer. He will miss band again. And my heart hurts for him because I know how much he loves all of it. But he’s okay. And on the car ride to Priscilla’s for dinner, Charlie thanked me for being there for him. Then I heard the words, “I love you, Momma.”

I wanted to cry.

Because in that moment, all the worries I had been carrying—the fear that I’m not doing enough, the fear that I’m getting it wrong, the fear that I’m not enough for three kids, the fear that our children are going to be okay without you—all of it became quiet for just a moment. Charlie saying, “I love you, Momma,” made me realize something I needed to hear: I’m doing okay. We’re doing okay.

But I won’t lie to you, Rob. I wish you were here to back me up. I wish I could call you after a hard morning and tell you what happened. I wish you could walk through the door and take over when I’m exhausted. I wish you could sit beside me at the baseball field and watch Charlie play. I wish you could cheer for Vivian. I wish you could see how much Anders has grown. I wish our kids weren’t growing up without their dad. I wish they didn’t have to learn what it means to live with this kind of loss.

I wish you were here.

There are moments when I feel strong. There are moments when I know I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to do. And then there are moments like this—when parenting feels impossibly heavy, when I feel the weight of your absence, and when I would give anything to have you beside me again.

I miss you, Rob. I miss my husband. I miss my best friend. I miss my partner in this. I miss the person who knew exactly when I needed someone to step in and when I just needed a hug. I miss knowing that I didn’t have to carry everything alone.

But I’m carrying it. Somehow, I’m carrying it.

And I hope you can see me. I hope you can see our kids. I hope you can see that we are still loving, still laughing, still showing up, still getting back up when we fall.

Just like you taught us.

I love you. Always. ❤️‍🩹