10/8/26
Dear Rob,
Today was another busy day at work. Thursdays are always chaotic for me, with meetings all day while trying to catch up on my to-do list. But today was also filled with little moments of joy. There was lots of laughter, and I treated a coworker to lunch to celebrate her birthday, which was two days ago. I’ve enjoyed talking with her lately. She’s asked the questions that no one wants to ask about you and your death. When we talk, I can see the pain in her eyes. I can tell she feels my pain, and we’ve bonded over that shared understanding. She’s also been doing her job for many years and has offered so much insight and guidance, which has helped me navigate the ups and downs. It’s comforting to have someone who isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions and who allows me to talk about you.
Today, I also took some time off to go to the Community Thread jewelry sale. You know how much I love jewelry. You never quite understood my obsession with it. You thought one ring was enough. That’s one area where we definitely didn’t see eye to eye.
Once I arrived to Community Thread, I discovered there was a long line. Normally, I attend this sale with a friend, but because of the timing and everyone’s work schedules, I did something I don’t normally like to do, I went alone. And you know what? It was nice. It was nice to wander around the different tables, look at all the jewelry, and spot the things that caught my eye. I even found a cute antique sequin mini clutch. If you were here, you would undoubtedly roll your eyes and remind me that I already have too many wallets and purses. But let’s be honest, a woman can never have too much jewelry or too many purses!
After my little shopping trip, I headed back to school to pick up Viv and Charlie. Anders took the bus with the soccer players to New Life to take photographs. On the way home, we talked about our days and how, in just three days, Charlie will turn 14. It’s crazy to think that our middle child is about to turn 14. Fourteen, Rob. And you won’t be here to celebrate with him. That thought hurts more than I can explain. I can’t imagine how much it hurts Charlie, too, knowing that his dad won’t be here for another birthday. These milestones keep coming, and we’re learning how to navigate them without you, even though none of us ever wanted to.
When we got home, I rested for a bit because I was exhausted after a full day of meetings. But after a quick break, it was time to start my second shift as a mom. I cleaned the kitchen, started a load of laundry, and eventually found myself folding everything. As I stood there, I realized how much quieter life has become now that Charlie and Viv’s soccer seasons are over. And that got me thinking about where I was at this time last year. Last year, I was grieving and surviving. I was also BUSY. I had just started a new job, was taking Charlie to fall ball, soccer, and flag football, and was getting Viv to soccer. There was always somewhere to go, something to do, or another responsibility waiting for me. Looking back, I think staying busy was one of the ways I kept myself going. If I kept moving, I didn’t have to sit still long enough to feel the full weight of losing you.
But this year is different.
As I stood in our laundry room, the very room that holds so many memories of you because you had your computer set up across from the laundry area, I realized that the quietness was exactly what I needed. The silence didn’t feel the same anymore. Last year, silence was unbearable. It left too much room for the thoughts, the memories, and the reality of your death to rush in. I would think about you, and the tears would start flowing. I couldn’t escape the emptiness of a house without you. But today, I could stand in that same room, fold laundry, and simply exist in the quiet. I could let my mind wander without feeling like I needed to fill every second with something else. The silence no longer felt like something I had to run away from. It felt like a place where I could finally breathe.
And maybe that’s what progress in grief looks like for me right now. Last year, I was doing everything I could to survive the days. This year, I’m learning how to live in them. I’m learning that I don’t have to fill every moment to keep myself from falling apart. I can sit in the silence. I can let myself rest. I can find joy in an ordinary Thursday. I can be okay in a quiet house and still miss you terribly. Those things can exist together.
Of course, the quiet also gives me time to think about everything that still needs to be done. As I stood in the laundry room, I started mentally listing all the fall tasks waiting for me. Raking leaves was your thing. You would tell the boys to help, and they would roll their eyes, huff, and puff as if you had asked them to do the impossible. I didn’t even tackle that last year. Now, I need to clean out the garage and start selling some of your things. I need to replace the filters, another task you always took care of. There are so many little things around this house that you handled without a second thought. Things I never had to worry about because I knew you would take care of them.
And now, they’re mine to figure out.
It’s amazing how something as simple as changing a filter or raking leaves can become a reminder that your person is gone. These aren’t just chores. They’re pieces of our life together. They’re the little responsibilities you quietly carried, the things you did to take care of our home and our family. I never fully appreciated how much you did until I was left to do it all myself. I would give anything to complain about the leaves piling up while you took care of them. I would gladly let you tell the boys what to do while I stayed inside. I never imagined I would miss these ordinary parts of our marriage so much.
Funny story, though. Before I left for MACM, our front-door camera stopped working. I asked Anders to look at it, but, of course, he took too long. When I ask for something to be done, I want it done right away. I have absolutely no patience when it comes to that! So I decided to figure it out myself. I searched YouTube, went out to the front porch, and started troubleshooting. I was getting frustrated because I couldn’t get the doorbell off its mount. But you know me. Once I decide I’m going to figure something out, I’m determined to get it done. An hour later, everything was back up and running.
When I walked back into the house, Charlie asked if I had managed to fix it. I looked at him and said, “Of course I did. I’m the man and the woman of this house.” Charlie chuckled and called me crazy. You would probably have laughed, too, although you might have reminded me that I could have just asked you to fix it if you were here.
All jokes aside, doing the things you used to do is one of the most brutal reminders that you’re no longer here on this earth. I wasn’t raised by a father who taught me how to do every household repair or tackle outdoor projects. My dad believed my husband should take care of everything while I sat in our house like a princess. And for more than 20 years, you did just that. You took care of me. You took care of our home. You never let me lift a finger if you could help it. You made my life easier in so many ways, and I loved being taken care of by you.
I miss that more than I can put into words.
I hate that I now have to figure things out on my own. I hate that I can’t call you to ask a question, watch you fix something, or simply hand you a task and know it will be taken care of. I hate that I have to learn these things because I lost you. I wish I had a brother who would call, text, or stop by to see if I needed help. I wish I had a single guy friend who could lend a hand with some of these projects. Sometimes I just want someone to take a few things off my plate. I don’t always want to be the one who has to figure everything out.
But here’s what I’m learning: I am capable of more than I ever realized. My dad instilled that belief in me from an early age. I watched him face adversity and figure things out on his own, and somewhere along the way, I learned that I could do the same. Rob, your death has forced me to face fears I never wanted to face. It has pushed me to learn things I never thought I would need to know. I’m teaching myself how to handle household repairs, yardwork, and all the little things that come with running a home. Sometimes I turn to YouTube. Sometimes I get frustrated. Sometimes I want to throw in the towel. But somehow, I keep going. And more often than not, I figure it out.
My friend reminded me today, and Viv has said it, too: I don’t need a man. I can do things on my own. And they’re right. I can. But I want to be honest about something, too. Being capable doesn’t mean I want to do everything alone. Learning to take care of myself and our home doesn’t mean I stopped wishing you were here to take care of us. I can be strong and still wish I had my husband beside me. I can figure out how to fix the doorbell and still wish I could walk inside and tell you all about it. I can learn to do the things you once did and still hate that I have to learn them without you.
That’s the complicated reality of grief. It isn’t just missing you. It’s navigating a world that keeps moving while I learn to do things I never wanted to do without you. It’s the frustration of being handed responsibilities I didn’t ask for. It’s the exhaustion of having to make every decision and solve every problem. It’s the small victories when I accomplish something on my own, followed by the ache of wishing you were here to see it. It’s realizing how capable I am while grieving the reason I had to become this capable in the first place.
Today, there were sprinkles of joy throughout my day. Laughter at work. A birthday lunch with a coworker. Conversations that made me feel understood. A little shopping trip where I got to do something just for myself. Coming home, taking care of the house, and finding that I could enjoy the quiet rather than run from it. Last year, some of these things felt impossible. I was doing everything I could to get through each day, and even the smallest tasks could feel overwhelming. Today, I was able to recognize the good moments as they happened. I was able to enjoy them without feeling guilty for being happy or needing to stay busy.
I’m making progress, Rob. I’m finding joy again. I’m learning to slow down. I’m learning to sit with my thoughts and emotions instead of constantly trying to outrun them. I’m discovering that healing doesn’t mean I stop missing you. It means I’m slowly learning how to carry the pain of losing you while still making room for life. It means I can stand in our laundry room, surrounded by memories, and feel peaceful. It means I can tackle a project, laugh with our kids, enjoy a shopping trip, and find happiness in an ordinary day.
I wish I could tell you all about today. I wish I could call you on my way home and tell you about the conversations I had at work. I wish I could walk through the door, show you my shopping haul, and watch you shake your head at yet another purse. I wish I could see you bring the laundry upstairs and place it on our couch for me to fold. I wish I could hear your voice, see your face, and feel your arms wrap around me after a long day. I wish I could tell you about the doorbell camera and hear you laugh at my determination.
I miss the ordinary things, Rob. The things that seemed so small when we had our whole lives ahead of us. The things I never imagined would become the very things I would ache for most.
Last year, I was surviving your death. This year, I’m learning to live in the space it left behind. I’m learning to sit in the silence, to face my fears, and to trust myself to figure things out. I’m learning that I can do hard things, even when I don’t want to. I’m learning that there is still joy to be found in this life, even though the person I want to share it with isn’t here.
I never wanted this life, Rob. I never wanted to become the only parent in our home, the only one responsible for all the things we once shared. I never wanted to learn how to do your jobs or make decisions without you. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted more ordinary Thursdays, more laundry to fold, more home projects to leave to you, and more evenings sitting beside my husband. I wanted the life we were supposed to have.
But this is the life I have now, and I’m slowly learning how to live it.
I hope you can see me, Rob. I hope you see me trying, growing, and finding my way. I hope you see the woman who is still your wife in all the ways that matter, who still loves you and misses you, but who is also learning how to stand on her own two feet. I hope you would be proud of me for facing the things that scare me, for finding moments of happiness, and for continuing to show up for our children and myself.
I’m still learning, and I know there will be days when the silence hurts again. There will be days when the responsibilities feel too heavy and I wish more than anything that you were here to take care of me. But today, I can recognize how far I’ve come. I don’t have to be busy every minute to survive. I don’t have to run from the quiet. I can breathe, reflect, and find peace in the life that is still unfolding.
And even as I learn to do more on my own, there is one thing I will never stop wishing for: one more ordinary day with you. One more conversation. One more hug. One more chance to tell you about my day and hear you tell me that everything will be okay.
I miss you, Roberto. More than words can ever express. And I wish you were here.
Love always,
Your munchkin ❤️
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