There are days when I would love someone to take care of me.
To notice that I’m tired without me having to explain it. To make the decision, sort the problem, or put a cup of tea in front of me and say, “Sit down. I’ve got this.”
Then I hear, “Mum?”
And I’m needed again.
A missing school item. A question. Something to eat. A worry that suddenly comes out at bedtime, just when I thought we were finally settling down.
The boys still need their mum.
And I’m still here, trying to be her while learning how to live without their dad.
Before Paul died, I knew how to be a mother in our family. That doesn’t mean we had everything figured out. We had the same busy, messy life as everyone else, with school, sports, work, and children who somehow always needed something at the least convenient moment.
But there were two of us.
I could tell him what had happened. Ask what he thought. Hand something over when I was running out of patience. We could worry about the boys together.
Now there are decisions I have to make, and afterward I still wish I could ask him, “Do you think I handled that right?”
That’s one of the parts I miss most. Having someone who loved our children as much as I do to talk it through with.
People talk about being both mum and dad after your husband dies.
I understand what they mean, but I can’t be Paul.
The boys have a dad. They love him. They miss him. There are things about him that belong to their relationship with him, and I can’t recreate those by trying harder.
I’m their mum. I can love them, listen to them, and keep showing up. I can keep their dad’s name part of our everyday conversations.
But I can’t fill every space he left.
That is hard to accept when your instinct as a mother is to make things better.
When your child is little, you get used to having a solution. A plaster. A cuddle. A snack. A promise that you’ll sit beside them until they fall asleep.
Then something happens that you cannot fix.
You can hold your child while they cry, but you can’t bring their dad through the door.
I don’t think anything prepared me for that.
On Good Friday, Ronan said, “Dad never saw me play soccer.”
Such a small sentence to carry such a big loss.
I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t give him the memory he wished he had.
And it made me think about all the moments still ahead of him. Things he’ll learn. Things he’ll try. The person he’ll become. Moments when he’ll look around and feel that his dad should be there.
Eamonn has his own loss to carry. His own memories, his own understanding, and his own moments when he needs Paul.
They are different ages. They won’t always need the same things from me, and they won’t necessarily want to talk at the same time.
I’m learning to leave room for that.
Sometimes I want to ask questions because I’m worried. I want to know what they’re thinking so I can help. But I also have to listen without trying to pull every feeling out of them.
Being available matters, even when they don’t have much to say.
And then there are the days when I’m struggling myself.
I might be distracted. I might have less patience than I want to have. Something ordinary can feel like one thing too many, and afterward I’m disappointed in myself.
Because the boys have already been through so much, I can put pressure on myself to get everything right for them.
I want home to feel safe. I want them to feel loved. I want them to have childhood memories that include laughter, adventures, and all the ordinary things children should get to enjoy.
But I’m grieving too.
I can’t always be calm simply because I know they need calm. I can’t make myself rested by knowing they need my energy.
Some days, I have to apologize.
“I’m sorry I was short with you.”
“I’m having a hard day.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
I want them to know they can trust me to say those things. I don’t want them thinking every change in my mood is something they caused or something they need to put right.
They are my children. They need room to be children.
That matters to me, especially when I’m lonely.
Eamonn is older, and it would be easy to forget how much he still needs from me because he can do more for himself. But being older doesn’t mean he should have to carry the responsibilities Paul carried.
Ronan needs room to ask questions, play, be silly, and get excited about something even on a day when I feel sad.
They both deserve to enjoy their lives without worrying that their happiness will hurt me.
I want to hear them laugh.
I want them to come home with stories about things that have nothing to do with grief.
And when they do want to talk about their dad, I want them to know his name is welcome.
We don’t have to wait for a birthday or an anniversary. He can come up in a conversation because something reminds us of him. We can remember something funny. We can miss him in the middle of a good day.
There are moments when talking about him brings tears. There are moments when it brings a smile.
I’m glad we can have both.
One of the strange things about parenting after loss is how quickly the day can move between heartbreak and something completely ordinary.
You can be thinking about everything your children have lost, and five minutes later you’re reminding someone to put their shoes on.
You still have to ask about homework. Set boundaries. Keep appointments. Work out what’s for dinner.
And yes, you still have to say no.
Grief doesn’t make every parenting decision clear. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m being too soft because I feel bad for them, or too impatient because I’m worn out.
There’s no one standing beside me giving me the answer.
So I do the best I can with the child and the moment in front of me. If I get it wrong, I try again.
I hope, as they grow, they will remember that I kept trying.
That I listened when I could, apologized when I needed to, and loved them through the days when none of us knew quite what to do.
I hope they remember that there was still laughter in our home.
That their dad was spoken about with love.
That they could come to me with a problem without having to protect me from it.
I’m still finding my way through all of this. There are days when I feel capable and days when I would give anything to hear Paul say, “You’re doing fine.”
But the boys don’t need me to have the rest of our lives worked out today.
They need me here, in the life we’re living now.
So I put the kettle on. I listen to the story. I find the missing thing—or at least remind them to look somewhere other than directly in front of them.
And when I hear, “Mum?” I answer.
Sometimes tired. Sometimes tearful. Sometimes laughing.
Still their mum.
With grá,
Liz ❤️