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In grade three a friend told me, "I can't sleep over because my parents say your mom and dad are drunks." That was the moment it hit me: my family isn't normal.
There’s been such a huge loss. A large part of their soul was gutted when their family was ripped apart. It took me too long to truly understand the pain they had been through.
“You know, mom, blood is thicker than water.” The words were biting, hard to receive. The undertone of my son's comment was clear: "you should have prioritized me above your new husband."
How can a boy expect to fill Dad’s shoes when he leaves?
The American dream was lining up for us. We were living the life. But there was still this unhappiness, like a buzz in the background that never went away.
Whole days can pass by without any heart-felt communication with my kids whatsoever.
Alone with my thoughts in solitary confinement, my worst fear was never seeing my daughter again. I didn’t want to be the father that my father was to me.
Three years ago, my husband breathed his last breath. Then began the most difficult journey I’ve ever experienced: life without him.