I have a daddy, right?

WRITTEN BY ALEXIS BRILL

“I have a daddy, right? My daddy is Andrew, right? My daughter casually asked me recently over dinner. I stopped in my tracks, kneeled to her level, looked her straight in the eyes and reassured her that, yes, she does have a daddy. Daddy’s name is Andrew. He wanted so much to be here with us, but his body stopped working and he died. I reassured her about how much he loves her, and that he will always love her.

This marked the first time our daughter has ever asked about her father directly. It was the week of her third birthday. Her dad, (my husband) Andrew, died from colon cancer when our daughter was 6 months old, just shy of his 40th birthday. I talk about her daddy a lot in a casual way, “Your daddy loved that song,” “You made a face that looked just like daddy,” and “Your daddy loved salmon, too.” But this question and the casual way in which she asked me caught me by surprise. For our daughter, daddy is an ethereal mystery. He is someone she knows about but recognizes is not here physically. He is in pictures sprinkled throughout our house, and he is in our conversations. He is in paintings she creates, and he is in videos on my phone, which she adores watching. He is in my memories, which I recount to her. She knows he is not here, and I wonder what she must be thinking, as she is too young to understand the concept of death. She sees daddies pick up their kids at school; she hears stories of her peers’ daddies and, when we’re out with friends and their kids, her friends’ daddies are often there.

“You want my daddy, too,” she said to me, as tears welled in my eyes while I delicately explained to our toddler that her daddy died. Soon, she was offering to wipe my tears and was consoling me. She now associates me crying with yearning for her daddy. “You miss daddy,” she will say, even if I am crying about something else. I explain to her that I miss him dearly and I again reassure her how much he loves her. As she grows and matures, I will make sure she gets to know him in the best way that I can.

My heart aches so much in these moments. What I would give to see my daughter interact with her daddy. To see her run up to him. To see them play around and be silly together. To hear her say “Daddy!” in excitement as he walks into the room, the way she does with me. To have him be a part of our mornings and our night routines. To be able to eat family meals together.

To have him experience the privilege of watching her grow. To hear them laugh in unison. What I would give to have his help and parenting support. Especially on the tough days. To have his involvement in the decision making that surrounds our daughter. To talk to him about what she did at school that day, and decide together what sports or arts to sign her up for in the summer. To have him sit next to me as I watch her in school programs.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know what this feels like. He died when she was an infant. I am grateful for the time the three of us had together. Time stopped. It was sacred, everything I ever wanted in one room. And I hate that he’s not here anymore. I expect that during those milestone moments, like when she graduates college, I will be filled with dual feelings of pride for our daughter and yearning for her dad to be here. It’s lonely. I miss him terribly. Friends and even family don’t fully understand. And, of course not; you can’t know unless you’re in it. I try to focus on honoring my grief journey, to practice self-compassion and self-love, to show up for myself and for our daughter. To surround ourselves with caring people who make us feel good. I envision giving our daughter the life that he and I dreamed of, the best way I can. That is a life full of wonder, beauty, culture, joy and a great education.

Yes, my precious daughter. Yes, you do have a daddy. He wanted you so much before you were born, and your arrival gave him the greatest source of joy. He gave everything he could to be here with us. He wanted nothing more in the world. His greatest desire was to live to see you grow. You are so much of him: your vibrant personality, your smile, your laugh, your intelligence, your determination and strong will, and your empathy for others. Your daddy is so very proud of you.

Alexis Brill is a solo Mom and a native of Montana. She would love to connect with other widowed parents, and started a group called Widow Warriors for local widowed women. She can be reached at brillalexis@gmail.com