Their Bad Mother

I know that Father’s Day should be, in significant measure, about celebrating the father of my children, and it will be that, for sure. But still: I have lost my own father, and that’s impossible to forget.

Last night Emilia and I sat at the dining room table, making a Father’s Day card for her dad. “You make one, too, Mommy,” she said, and of course, I obliged, but as I sat there, crayon in hand, hovering over the words had Emilia directed me to spell – To The Best Dad Ever – I became overwhelmed with grief. How many times had I written those words, or words like them, to my dad? How many cards had I signed, how many pictures had I drawn, how many crayons were worn down writing out words of admiration and love? So many, and now, no more.

I put the crayon down and told Emilia that I was going to the bathroom. When I got there, I cried. I cried and cried and felt about six years old and when I was finally able to compose myself, I thought, this is how it is now. This is how it will always be. This loss is forever.

This sadness never goes away, does it?

I ask, and yet I already know the answer.


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