Trigger Warning: This piece discusses the loss of a child.
“How many kids do you have?”
As a parent who has experienced the loss of a child, this seemingly simple question feels like an emotional ice pick, leaving me momentarily speechless. It’s comparable to asking someone about their job or where they live, yet it cuts deeper than most can understand.
Should I reveal my truth? Should I share with a stranger that while I cherish my two lively daughters here on earth, I also had a third daughter, who left us far too soon at just three weeks old? Should I claim three children or take the more comfortable route and say two?
I don’t intend to discourage anyone from asking this question—it’s part of life, after all. Three years after losing my daughter, Lily, I’ve come to accept that this question will always be a part of my reality; it will sting each time, like salt on an open wound. That pain is not anyone’s fault, and I harbor no anger about it. Instead, I carry a profound sadness.
Lily’s passing shattered my world, and although I strive to move forward, to laugh and live like everyone else, beneath my composed exterior resides a heart that is forever fractured, aching with loss.
So when you inquire about how many children I have, my blank expression and hesitance to respond stem from an internal struggle. I find myself torn between providing the answer that keeps our conversation flowing smoothly—allowing you to avoid feeling uncomfortable—and honoring Lily’s memory with the truth.
It’s not merely about how strangers pose this question. The anguish resurfaces in moments like filling out forms or discussing parenting challenges with others. When I say “two” instead of “three,” a piece of my heart breaks anew. Yet, regardless of the hurt, I must acknowledge that I am raising two daughters and not three. Time cannot be reversed, and I cannot bring back my precious Lily.
While I take solace in the fact that Lily’s twin sister, Mia, is thriving, it’s still a challenge to look at her and see the potential of what could have been. I wish I had more articulate responses when asked about my children. But the truth is, after three and a half years, I still haven’t found a way to answer that question gracefully.
I wish none of this had happened. I long for the moments of snuggling with three little girls on the couch, reading bedtime stories, and filling our home with laughter. I wish I didn’t have an urn on my mantle or a death certificate tucked away in a drawer. I wish I could mention Lily’s name without feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the heart.
Yet, in the face of all these wishes, I know I must focus on loving my husband and my two daughters as fully as I can. If there’s any meaning to Lily’s passing, perhaps it’s to inspire compassion for others navigating similar losses. While we may not have all the answers, we are trying—trying to survive, to find joy, and to make sense of it all.
So, please approach grieving parents with patience and understanding when they face the hardest question. Your kindness can make a profound difference amidst unbearable heartache.
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Summary
In this heartfelt reflection, the author shares the emotional turmoil of answering the question, “How many children do you have?” after losing a child. The internal conflict between honoring the memory of a lost daughter and the discomfort of others is explored. The author emphasizes the ongoing pain of grief while also recognizing the joy of raising two surviving daughters. Ultimately, the piece calls for empathy towards grieving parents.