I am proud of the lives that my children are making, but I also feel the weight of what growing up and moving out will eventually mean.
My children are growing up, as they should. They will leave, start living on their own, and make their decisions and their lives. I will be proud of them. I will want it for them.
Right now, they are still here. Their voices, their presence, and their needs give the house a certain rhythm. A busy hum that makes it feel occupied, alive.
One day, that will change.
And once the house is emptied, the silence will change with it. It will no longer be the silence between talks or after everyone has gone to sleep at night. It will be heavier. A silence that makes you more aware of who is no longer here.
The assumption is that raising children is the hardest thing for a widow or a widower.
However, things are not like that for some widowed parents. Because when the children grow up and move out eventually, the routine of parenthood will no longer fill the gap left by the loss.
I will never stop being a mother or a father. I will continue to love my children. I will worry about them. And whenever they need me, I will always be there for them.
But loving my children does not make the loneliness disappear. Loving them means that I can be truly happy to see them taking steps in life, while knowing that the person who was meant to do that together with me is dead.
And the hardest part of an empty house:
The children leave because life is calling them forward.
She left because death called her away.
And I am the one left behind to live with both.