I’m so sorry. Losing a parent shatters so many things: the family you knew, the vacations you thought would last for years, the feeling of always having someone to call.
Grief is a demanding – and unwanted – companion. It hits in the big, predictable moments like a birthday and just as often in the smaller ones: a song, clothes still hanging in a closet as if waiting for someone to come home. I hope you know that time heals. Grief crashes over us like a wave, but it also comes back and gives us space to breathe.
I say all this as someone who hasn’t walked in your shoes. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. But I know what it’s like to lose a spouse. My husband Dave died when he was forty-seven and I was forty-five. We had two children aged seven and ten. In a matter of seconds, I lost the man I loved, my best friend, my co-parent. Every night at dinner, his chair sat there, in a void that submerged the present and cast a long shadow over the future, reminding me that I would grow old alone.
I am lucky to have amazing family and friends. Every night for months, my mother, sister, or friend would come over after my children were asleep, lie in bed with me, and hold me while I cried. But even this truly remarkable generosity could only take me so far. Because at the end of the evening, they went home, to their husbands. And I would lie there, in a bed built for two that only held one.
Over the next eleven years, I have spoken to hundreds of people who have lost their spouses. I tell them what I have come to believe with all my heart: that they will be okay. Grief does not exclude joy but can, over time, deepen it. While I don’t wish the devastation of loss on anyone, many who experience it go on to live more meaningful lives. I was complaining about getting old. Now I live every birthday and many ordinary Tuesdays with gratitude, I learned the hard way. I know that every day is precious.
Toward the end of almost every one of these conversations, I say the same thing: If you want to, you can find love again. To one, she gasps – a small, involuntary sound of relief, as if quietly hoping that someone will say the words out loud. Then they respond: “Thanks for saying that – no one else has.” » And then, almost as often, they add: “But I don’t want to upset my children.”
I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the last few weeks because of a series of conversations I can’t shake. I spoke to a man in his 60s who cared for his cancer-stricken wife with a dedication I can barely describe. He told me he was deeply alone, but couldn’t even entertain the idea of loving again because he didn’t want to alienate his adult children. I spoke to another man who ended a relationship with a woman he loved because of his daughter’s reaction. I asked how old his daughter was (thirty-seven) and when his wife died (four years ago). I spoke to a devoted mother whose boyfriend moved in. Today, his son refuses to set foot in his apartment, saying: “I don’t want Dad to be replaced!”
To all adult children who have lost a parent: I hope that one day smiles will replace tears and that you will perpetuate the memory of your parents with love, not just nostalgia. But I also hope that in addition to your grief, you can hold on to the idea that your surviving parent deserves a chance at happiness. This is not to say that finding a new partner is the answer for every widow or widower. But for some of us, it is one of the most promising paths. Because if you thought about growing old with someone you love, the emptiness of that chair next to you can feel not only hollow but terrifying.
The relationship between a parent and child is inherently unbalanced, and rightly so. From the moment a child is born, almost everything goes in one direction. We feed you, hold you, drop you off at preschool and cry in the parking lot. We support you in every stage of your life, sometimes imperfectly, but with everything we have.
But there comes a time when it’s up to children to look away. Losing a parent is one of the hardest things a person can experience. The same goes for the loss of a spouse. The question for families living in these two truths is: “How can we care for each other?”
Just as your parent should do everything they can to help you recover, you have a real opportunity – and dare I say an obligation – to do the same for your widowed mother or father. Even though it can be extremely difficult, let your mom or dad know that you support them if they want to look for love again.
On our honeymoon twenty-two years ago, Dave and I traveled to the tip of South Africa and took a photo in front of a sign: “Cape of Good Hope.” These words seemed to hold the promise of our future together. After losing Dave, I looked at this photo more than any other. Sometimes it made me smile, and sometimes it broke my heart all over again.
Last month I went back. Same rocks, same waves, but with my now husband Tom and my son. At first I sat alone and talked out loud to Dave like I still do sometimes. Then Tom and my son sat next to me, one on each side. They put their arms around me and wiped away my tears – and I let both things be true at once: grief for the love I lost and gratitude for the love I found. Then my son did the most thoughtful thing he could have done. He took my hand, helped me up and said, “Mom, let’s take this picture again. Take one with me and take one with Tom. Dad would be happy if you found it.”
One of the truest things I’ve learned is that you can still deeply love someone who is no longer here. And at the same time, you can make room for someone new, especially if that person, like Tom, understands that you can love them while still missing the person you lost. Grief and love are not pitted against each other in competition for space. They can sit on the same rocks and watch the same waves at the same time.
On those rocks, my son gave me the most generous gift a child can give a grieving parent: permission. Not to forget or replace, but to add. This is what I ask of you: do not abandon the parent you have lost, but help the parent you still have. Help your mother take a new photo. Help your father believe that if he wants to fill it, the chair next to him doesn’t need to remain empty.
New love does not erase the old. It just proves that there is more room in our hearts than we think.
Gn headline
