My mom died when I was 28. Rob died when he was 28. I had them both for 28 years. How fuckin’ wrong is that?
My mom never got to meet Rob and that thought always made my heart hurt. I know she would’ve loved him, and I think Rob would’ve loved her. Maybe they’re together now, who knows?
When my mom died, I didn’t know how to handle it–I was only 28–so I pretty much just shut down and went into therapy for the rest of my life. When Rob died, my guts were ripped open and everything inside of me came gushing out–he was only 28–and it feels like a piece of me has died with him.
Twenty-eight years is not nearly enough time for a boy to be with his mother. Twenty-eight years is not nearly enough time for a boy to be with his father. I am the boy and I am the father, and I miss them both very, very much.
Editor’s Note: I texted this story to my sister Patti, who I knew would appreciate it the most. Here’s our exchange:
It’s so beautiful that I’m afraid to break your heart!!
You know how you always tell me how your memory is so fucked up?
I was 23 when mom died, you were 26
Well, now I’ll just use these texts and the story will have a different ending.
Works for me