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Sarah was gone.
Afterwards, everything became a blur.
My mother handled almost everything. She organized the funeral, made meals, helped with the kids, and kept telling me not to worry about anything except grieving.
Sarah was gone.
At the time, I was grateful because I could barely function.
I was so deep in grief that I wasn’t eating properly, and I barely slept.
At Sarah’s funeral, my oldest son, Mason, had to grab my arm because my legs nearly gave out while I was walking toward the front row. But life kept moving whether I was ready or not to be a widower with five kids.
The kids still needed breakfast.
Homework still had to be signed.
So I learned how to survive.
Mason, had to grab my arm.
I learned how to braid my daughters’ hair from online videos, how to cook proper meals, and how to rock my youngest son after nightmares when he cried, asking for his mom.
Every day felt exhausting.
Then, six months later, I finally admitted I needed help.
The house was a disaster. Bills were stacked everywhere. Laundry covered half the guest room. I hadn’t even cleaned the garage since Sarah got sick.
I finally admitted I needed help.
***
Before the past weekend, I asked my mother to take the kids. I planned to do grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, and get things in order. My mother agreed, and that Friday afternoon, I asked my third child, Lucy, to help pack overnight bags for a weekend at Grandma Diane’s house.
The moment I mentioned it, she froze.