I could sense your gaze throughout the evening, your disapproving eyes fixated on my children and me from the moment we settled into our seats beside you at the restaurant. Lately, I’m no stranger to such looks; they’ve become a regular part of my life. I often hear comments like, “You must have your hands full,” or the frequent inquiry, “Are they all yours?”—a question I faced twice at the airport last week alone. The curious glares about my kids’ close age are also a common occurrence, as is the well-meaning but intrusive question, “Is anyone else joining you?”
I understand that my 5-year-old likely annoyed your husband when she bumped into him while making her way to the restroom. But honestly, I was just relieved she needed to go before the food arrived. I’m aware you probably judged my choice to let them use iPads at the table, and I can imagine how my kids’ playful bickering over stickers might have grated on your nerves.
As we stood up to leave, I overheard your hushed remarks. You muttered to your husband, shaking your head as you said, “And she has four kids—four!” Your husband craned his neck to stare at us as if we were an exhibit at the zoo. I felt a pang of hurt and disbelief at your blatant disapproval. Yes, I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which may have led you to see me as an unmarried woman struggling to manage four unruly children. I recognize the judgment because I’ve had my share of being Miss Judgypants—I can tell when someone is sizing me up.
Your disdainful expressions as we walked past made my throat tighten with anger. I felt so small and inadequate, all because of your looks. I wanted to shout, to put you in your place—those who know me can attest to my fiery temperament—but I resisted. Instead, I took my youngest by the hand and led my children out, trying to hold back tears as they joyfully chattered about the crescent moon and the alligators they imagined in the nearby pond.
If only you had taken a moment to look deeper instead of casting judgment. You would have seen a woman barely holding it together, trying to navigate the chaos of life after losing my husband just last month. This trip to Florida was meant as a brief escape from the flood of memories that engulf me at home. I brought my kids to that seafood restaurant to enjoy a glass of wine and a decent meal—something other than the mac and cheese and Cincinnati chili we’d been living on for weeks.
By dinner time, I had run out of patience. I may have looked disheveled, possibly even bra-less, as I rushed out the door to catch the sunset before our meal. You missed the moment when my kids were smiling and behaving beautifully in that beach photo, too.
I was merely trying to keep my grief hidden from my children while battling the exhaustion of sleepless nights. I didn’t want anyone to see the signs of my sorrow—the redness under my sunglasses from tears shed earlier while watching another father play with his son. I was desperately trying to maintain composure in front of my kids, even as they expressed deep feelings about missing their dad.
I can’t say I have all the answers on how to navigate this new life as a widow and single mother. I wrestle with how to talk about my husband, when to cry, and how to shield my children from the pain of seeing other kids with their fathers. I’m even uncertain about how to address my twins’ upcoming father-daughter dance at school in January, which would have been their dad’s birthday. The worry consumes me, and I know my children sense it too.
So please, cut me some slack. And extend that same grace to my kids. They are not to blame for the unfortunate hand life has dealt us. I apologize if you caught them at their worst or if my parenting seemed lacking in your eyes. I’m sorry for appearing like a disheveled sea creature who emerged from Sarasota Bay. But more than anything, I regret not expressing all of this to you in person.
Summary
This heartfelt piece reflects on the judgment faced by a single mother of four, grappling with grief after the loss of her husband. It explores the challenges of parenting alone and the misconceptions that often arise from casual observations. Instead of allowing disdain to overshadow understanding, the author urges compassion and empathy for those facing personal struggles.