The Men Who Stayed | Diary of a Grieving Mother

It's Father's Day.

There are a lot of things I'm grateful for on this day.

First, my father.

We've done more together in the last almost four years than in our entire lifetime. Through all the renovations and projects we've tackled, I've found myself remembering the things we did together when I was a little girl.

We lived in a house that was half manufactured trailer and half slab house. It wasn't pretty. The day we drove up to see it for the first time, my mom was supposed to keep her eyes closed. Dad was so excited. We pulled into the driveway, Mom opened her eyes, took one look, and immediately told him to turn around and leave!

She wasn't wrong.

The place was a disaster. Bats in the attic. Mice in the walls. During our first nights there, all seven of us slept together on the floor in one room.

Try going to school in the dead of winter after a skunk decides to fight a cat under your house. Middle of the night, windows and doors open in frigid temps. I once had to fake a stomach bug just to leave school before the 'mean girls' descended on me from the stank!

The house wasn't much, but it was ours.

Over time, we built onto it. The trailer disappeared, replaced by a real house built with hard work, determination, and a lot of sweat.

Back then, Dad would give me little jobs. Scraping paint. Pulling nails. My arms weren't strong enough to do much, but I loved being included in whatever project he was working on.

Now, all these years later, he and I sit together planning projects. We probably have 682 lined up! Granted, between him, my mother, and I, we make roughly one decent human’s worth of usable energy.

So... things take a little time to get crossed off the list!

He's taught me more about plumbing, electrical work, and carpentry than I ever imagined I'd know. Mom and I tackle drywall, flooring, painting, and kitchens.

Plus, my mom and I have our own pending projects; which means we will never ever find the end of the list!

Having them close by is a blessing I never would have guessed I'd have. So I’m fine with that list going on forever.

And the things my father passed on to my son were priceless. To the point, a week before Aidan's accident, he told me he wanted to get his contractor's license. I'm not sure he would've ever gone that route if it wasn't for my dad.

Then there's Justin.

My incredible husband.

He's walked beside me through chaos and crisis. He became a father to Gabe and Aidan in all the ways that mattered. He showed up. He stayed. He loved them without conditions.

I don't know many men who would've stayed by my side through everything we've faced. Yet he did.

One of the things that connected him and Aidan was fishing. Aidan was never happier than when he had a fishing rod in his hand. He'd beg Justin to get the kayaks out or head down to the water. It didn't matter what else was going on. Mention fishing and they were halfway out the door before the conversation was over.

Yesterday, Justin shared one of his earliest memories of Aidan.

Justin isn't much of a writer, but he tells stories.

The first time he came to my house, he brought his two little peanuts with him. Madison and Aidan. We thought it was pretty funny we both had boys named Aidan, and even spelled it the same way! 

He remembered the kids were gathered around the table making something with a lot of sugar. Their fingers were crusty with it from sneaking tastes every chance they got.

At first, Justin's little ones were shy around my boys. Then sugar worked its magic.

His description of Aidan's fiery red hair flying through the living room, a cape billowing behind him as he ran, had me laughing through tears. Little Maddy was a daredevil herself back then and she immediately took off after him in her perfect pink dress.

It's funny what people remember.

Not graduations.

Not awards.

Not milestones.

A red-headed little boy with sticky fingers and a superhero cape. That’s the memory.

Looking back, there were certainly times Justin and Aidan annoyed the life out of each other. They argued about tools, chores, mowing the lawn, and all the things fathers and sons tend to argue about.

But beneath all of it was something special.

Love.

The kind that doesn't require blood.

The kind that simply shows up.

The kind that can go from an argument about lost tools, to Justin threatening to tickle him with one twitch of his hand. Aidan's known that twitch since he was in first grade. Back then you could just pretend like you were about to tickle him and he’d burst into laughter before anyone ever even touched him. That silliness never left him.

Even at 20, Justin could make him hop around the kitchen, laughing hysterically as he tried to evade Justin’s long arms. 

And for that, I will always be grateful.

This first Father's Day without Aidan feels different.

A week ago, Macie and I sat together at the cemetery talking when she said something that hasn't left me.

"At first, I wasn't afraid of death after what happened to Aidan. If it was my time, then fine. But now I'm terrified to die. There's still so much left for me to do. So much that I want to do, but Aidan will never get to. And that's not fair."

We cried together.

Because she was right.

There is so much Aidan will never get to do.

One of those things is becoming a father.

He would've been an incredible one. Not because he was perfect, but because he loved so completely.

I can picture it so clearly. Little red-headed firecrackers running through the yard. Fishing poles too big for their hands. Muddy boots by the door. A barndominium on family land. Family dinners. Cousins playing tag.

A future that felt so certain.

When you become a parent, that first Mother's Day or Father's Day feels special. Like you've finally joined a club you've been waiting your whole life to enter. You hold your baby and suddenly understand a kind of love that didn't exist before.

Aidan will never know that feeling.

He'll never hold his newborn child.

He'll never experience that overwhelming rush of love and protectiveness.

He'll never hear tiny voices call him Dad.

And that realization settled over me yesterday as I sat in the heat of the sun beside his stone.

One of the cruelest parts of losing a child is discovering how many futures die with them.

You don't just grieve who they were.

You grieve who they would've become.

Today, I am grateful for my father.

I am grateful for Justin.

I am grateful for the men who showed up, stayed, and loved without conditions.

But today I am also grieving a Father's Day that will never come.

The one Aidan should have had.

And that grief deserves a place at the table too.

—Mary-Jo

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From the pages of Diary of a Grieving Mother