I don’t even know how to find the words right now. My heart hasn’t hurt like this since I lost my dad. I keep catching myself wishing, begging, that I’ll wake up and realize this is just some kind of nightmare, that he’s still here, that none of this is real. But every day, reality crashes back in, and I’m left with this impossible ache that settles in my bones. The father of my children is gone.
Our kids are adults now, living their own lives, raising families of their own. Sometimes I look at our grandchildren and see flashes of him—the way they laugh, a stubborn look in their eyes, a crooked smile that’s so familiar it knocks the wind out of me. We haven’t been together in a long time. Life took us in different directions, and we both built new stories. But that kind of love—the kind that shaped my life, the kind that brought these children into the world—doesn’t just vanish because the years passed or because we went our separate ways. I never stopped loving him. Not really. I loved him in the background, in the quiet, in the way you love someone who helped make you who you are.
I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. I didn’t get one more moment, one more chance to tell him—again, and again—that I’ve always loved him, and I always will. That regret wraps itself around me like a vice. I keep replaying old conversations, remembering the things I should have said, the things I wish I could take back, the things I wish I could say now. It’s like there’s a loop in my mind, this endless reel of memories, and every single one hurts in a different way.
The pain is suffocating. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I forget how to breathe. I just sit here, tears pouring down my face, wishing for a miracle that I know will never come. I want to call him, to hear his voice, to tell him that despite everything, he mattered. He mattered so much. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to see anyone. I just want him back. Please, God, bring him back. This isn’t fair. It’s not fair. It feels cruel.
And underneath the heartbreak is this deep, ugly anger. I’m angry at time, at fate, at how merciless life can be. I’m angry that our kids and grandkids won’t have him there for all the little moments and milestones still to come. I’m angry at myself most of all—for letting so much time slip by, for not reaching out more, for thinking there would always be another chance. Why do we always think there’s more time? Why do we lie to ourselves like that?
There’s this sense of helplessness that comes with grief, like you’re trapped underwater and everyone else is living on the surface. People mean well—they offer their condolences, say things like “he’s in a better place” or “at least you have the memories,” but none of it touches the rawness inside me. No words can fill the space he’s left behind. I feel like I’m screaming into a void, and the world just keeps spinning, indifferent.
What do you do with all this love that has nowhere to go? What do you do with the anger, the longing, the regret? I wish I knew. I wish I had answers. Right now, all I can do is sit with it, carry it, let it wash over me. Some days I feel like I’m losing my mind. Some days I feel nothing at all, just numb and hollow. Some days, the grief is so sharp I don’t know how I’m supposed to function. But life doesn’t pause. The world doesn’t stop grieving with you. The bills still need paying, the house still needs cleaning, the grandkids still want to play, and you just keep going somehow, even when it feels impossible.
There’s a part of me that’s terrified to let this pain soften, as if letting go would mean letting go of him, too. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to live in a world that he’s not part of, even if our lives had been separate for years. I only know I have to keep moving, if not for me, then for our children, for our grandchildren. They’ve lost him, too, and I see that pain reflected in their eyes. I want to be strong for them. I want to be strong for myself. But right now, all I feel is broken.
Maybe one day, this storm will pass. Maybe the anger will fade, and the heartbreak will turn into something gentler—something like gratitude for having loved him at all. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to remember him without feeling like the ground’s been ripped out from under me. For now, though, I’m just here. I’m missing him. I’m loving him. I’m grieving all the goodbyes I never got to say. And I’m wishing, with everything I have, for just one more moment to tell him how much he meant to me.
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