Over the last 18 months, I’ve had several text messages I’ve ignored, deleted, or moved to the archives (whatever that is), but there is one I keep coming back to. It’s a single text in the midst of many I received in the days after Dad drowned.
Context: My father’s wife was incapable of speaking to his children the day my father died. We, his kids, flew to Florida to say goodbye to him, but I had to coordinate everything through her granddaughter (who is my age). The day after Dad died we went to the condo where my father’s wife was staying in order to collect a key to their home that had been offered to us the day before. Before going to the condo, we decided to purchase sticky notes and place our names on anything we might be interested in because we knew there would be a problem and we would be accused of stealing, so we wouldn’t be removing anything from the house.
At the condo, the situation quickly devolved and I literally had to pick my sobbing sister off the floor and carry her out. My father’s wife said my sister deserved to feel that way and she was happy to make my sister cry.
As we were leaving, the aforementioned niece was returning with her children and her nieces. I apologized for how quickly the situation devolved and I received several texts back explaining how we had ruined their day.
This is where the text comes in. “I am sorry you lost your Dad… But my Grandma lost the love of her life…” Yes, I’m editing the text, but I’ve edited it down to the bits that cycle through my head regularly.
“I’m sorry you lost your Dad.. But my Grandma lost the love of her life…”
I didn’t respond to the text at the time, so allow me a moment to now… At least for my mental health.
The text is from someone with the luxury of reaching 40 with a relationship with both of her parents, with at least one surviving grandparent. She didn’t have to plan a wedding without her mother. She had her mother at the birth of her children, not her siblings playing stand-in. She can talk to her mother about menopause. She can call her mom just to hear her voice.
Me, on the other hand… I’ve a recording of my mom’s voice. She’s telling a story about my father gathering coffee cups and reheating the dregs after he decided they didn’t need coffee anymore. I think she laughs in it.
A couple years ago, I hodge-podged “I love you” in my mom’s handwriting scavenged from index cards that somehow survived the purges of my childhood. I sent the images to two Etsy vendors who made gifts for my siblings for Christmas.
It’s simple to say I’m jealous of anyone who has parents. I am. It’s true.
There’s not much more to say about it. I hated that text when I received it. I didn’t respond because I couldn’t say anything nice and who else was taught if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all?
In the last 18 months, I’ve learned that sometimes you have to say something even if it isn’t nice. That text hurt. Acutely. And sometimes we need to learn from the mistakes of tone-deaf words.
So here’s my response: Yes, I did just lose my father. Please be mindful of that. Your text is hurtful and belittles my life and experience. Please think of that tonight while you spend time with your mother and grandmother.
Please be kind to each other.