Cremation or burial? What kind of service? Did he have a favorite suit? Questions that seemed impossible to answer when all I wanted to do was crawl into bed with my husband one last time. The hardest part was driving home, knowing I had to tell Lily that her father was never coming back. How do you explain death to an eight-year-old? How do you tell her that the daddy who made dinosaur pancakes that morning was gone forever? Telling Lily about her father was the most difficult moment of my life.
When she got into my car after school, she immediately sensed something was wrong. Where’s daddy? He promised to come to my art show tonight, she said, her backpack clutched in her small hands. I pulled over to the side of the road because I couldn’t focus on driving.
Turning to face her, I took her hands in mine. Lily, something very sad happened today. Daddy got very sick at work and his heart stopped working.
Her face scrunched in confusion. Can the doctors fix it? The innocent hope in her question broke. Something inside me.
No, sweetie. When someone’s heart stops working completely, the doctors can’t fix it. Daddy died today.
She stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Her blue eyes, so much like Kevin’s, processing this incomprehensible information. Then she asked, does that mean daddy isn’t coming home? Ever? When I nodded, unable to speak through my tears, she let out a wail that didn’t sound human.
It was primal, the pure sound of a child’s heart breaking. She threw herself into my arms, her small body shaking with sobs. I want daddy.
Please, I want my daddy. There was nothing I could do but hold her and cry with her, parked on the side of the road as life continued all around us, oblivious to our shattered world. That evening, after I’d finally gotten Lily to sleep in my bed, clutching Kevin’s unwashed t-shirt for comfort, the full weight of my loss hit me.
I sat on the bathroom floor, door closed so Lily wouldn’t hear, and broke down completely. The physical pain of grief was overwhelming, like being repeatedly punched in the chest. I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t think. I needed my mom and dad. With… Shaking hands, I called my parents.
They’d been married for 40 years, had weathered losses together. Surely they would know what to say, how to help me through this impossible time. My mother answered on the fifth ring, the sound of laughter, and music in the background.
Rachel, can I call you back? We’re in the middle of Sophia’s birthday dinner. Mom, I choked out, barely able to form words through my sobs. Kevin died this morning.
He had a heart attack at work. He’s gone. There was a pause, and I heard her cover the phone and say something to someone else.
When she returned, her voice was slightly more somber but still distracted. Oh my goodness, that’s terrible. Are you sure? Maybe there’s been a mistake? I saw his body, mom.
There’s no mistake. The fact that I had to convince my own mother that my husband was actually dead felt like another trauma on top of everything. Else? Well, this is quite a shock.
But sweetie, we’re in the middle of Sophia’s 40th birthday celebration. Everyone’s here. We’ve got the caterers.
Can you manage tonight, and we’ll come by tomorrow when things settle down? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My sister’s birthday party took precedence over her son-in-law’s death, over her daughter and granddaughter’s acute grief. My father got on the phone then.
Rachel, this is awful news. Was Kevin’s life insurance policy up to date? You know, you should call the company first thing tomorrow. Not, I’m coming right over.
Not, what can we do to help? But a question about life insurance while my husband’s body was barely cold. I can’t believe this is your response, I said, my voice hollow. My husband just died.
Lily lost her father. And you’re at a party? Now, Rachel, my father said in that condescending tone he’d used throughout my childhood. Sophia has been planning this milestone birthday for months.
Everyone took time off work to be here. We can’t just walk out. Be reasonable.
Reasonable? As if grief followed any rules of reason. Forget I called, I said, and hung up. Within minutes, my phone was flooded with text messages from friends who had somehow heard the news.
Kevin’s college roommate, Brian, my colleague, Jennifer, even my old high school friend, Taylor, who I hadn’t spoken to in years, all offering condolences, asking what they could do to help. Strangers showed more compassion than my own family. My neighbor, Ellen, came over with a casserole and sat with me at the kitchen table as I tried to make a list of people to notify.
She offered to stay the night, but I declined. I needed to be alone with Lily, to start figuring out how we would navigate this new, terrifying reality without Kevin. That first night was endless.
Lily had nightmares and kept waking up calling. For her daddy. I lay beside her, stroking her hair and telling her stories about Kevin, about how much he loved her, about how brave he thought she was.
Eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep, but I remained awake, staring at the ceiling, the absence of Kevin’s warmth beside me an unbearable void. Morning came, and with it the crushing realization that this wasn’t a nightmare I could wake from. This was our life now, a life without Kevin, a life where my own parents couldn’t be bothered to show up when I needed them most.
Kevin’s funeral was scheduled for Saturday, four days after his death. Those days passed in a fog of arrangements, paperwork, and trying to comfort Lily while barely holding myself together. My parents called once, briefly, to ask what time the service started and if they should wear black or if it was a celebration of life with colorful attire.
They didn’t offer to help with arrangements or ask how Lily was coping. The day of the funeral dawned bright and sunny, cruelly beautiful for such a dark occasion. Lily insisted on wearing a blue dress because daddy always said I look like a princess in blue.
I helped her with her hair, weaving a small braid along her temple the way Kevin used to do on special occasions. We arrived at the funeral home an hour early to greet people. Kevin’s colleagues from the financial firm came, first somber in their dark suits, many of them openly crying.
They had lost not just a co-worker but a friend. They each took time with Lily, sharing small stories about her father that she might treasure later. My parents and Sophia were supposed to arrive early too, but they texted 20 minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, saying they were running late due to traffic.
They finally walked in as people were being seated, making a small commotion as they found places in the front row that I had reserved for family. My mother hugged me briefly, her perfume overwhelming. The traffic was terrible and Sophia had a hard time finding something appropriate to wear on such short notice.
Short notice. As if Kevin’s death were an inconvenient dinner party. Throughout the service, I was acutely aware of Sophia checking her phone, my father glancing at his watch, my mother dabbing at dry eyes for show.
Meanwhile, Kevin’s colleagues and our friends were genuinely distraught, their grief palpable and real. In contrast to my family’s detachment, Kevin’s brother Marcus showed true devastation. He had flown in from Japan, where he taught English, arriving just hours before the service.
He looked exhausted and hollow-eyed, having clearly not slept on the 30-hour journey. He sat next to Lily, holding her hand throughout the service, their identical blue eyes filled with tears. When it came time for the eulogy, I wasn’t sure I could do it.
My legs felt like lead as I approached the podium, but then I looked at Lily, sitting there so brave and small in her blue dress, and found the strength somewhere. I spoke about Kevin’s kindness, his integrity, his boundless love for his daughter. I spoke about his terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time.