The Widow’s Children

This title sounds like it could belong to some extensive period drama, complete with an abundance of tears and a Brontë-esque coldness woven deep within every word.

But that’s not the kind of tale this is.

While I do try to write with that kind of passion, my own version of the widow’s children is actually more of a look into how losing my spouse caused my children to have to step up to duties that are largely foreign to their peers.

My daughter was 10 when my husband, her father, chose to end his life.

She and I have always been very close; our little family triune was very tightly knit.

Right from the get go, though, she and I were instant best friends.

I know some people frown on that kind of approach to parenting, but I have never been a hardliner when it comes to anything, and that includes parenting.

She had an extended breastfeeding, baby wearing, co-sleeping kind of early life, where we took her to just about everywhere we went, ourselves.

She even joined me in taking several classes at various times, and the instructors would always remark about how well behaved a baby she actually was.

As one can imagine, when her father died, our bond tightened that much more.

She became just as protective of me, as I am of her.

We learned very quickly that we had to be completely honest with one another about pretty much…