Updated: July 7, 2017
Originally Published: June 7, 2016
How many children do you have?
As a parent who has experienced loss, this seemingly simple question, much like asking where someone lives or what they do, sends a chill through me and leaves me searching for the right words.
Should I be honest? Should I share with a stranger that while I have two wonderful daughters, my third child was taken from me when she was just three weeks old? Should I say I have three children, or should I opt for the easier response of saying two?
I’m not here to tell you not to ask this question—far from it. Three years after losing my daughter, Lily, I’ve come to accept that I will always confront this question, and yes, it stings every single time. It’s like pouring salt in a wound or getting punched in the gut. But I harbor no anger about it.
What I feel is profound sadness.
This question isn’t going away, nor is my grief. The loss of Lily shattered my world. Even as I strive to move forward, to function in daily life and even find moments of joy, I carry a broken heart beneath my seemingly normal exterior.
So when you ask me how many children I have, my blank expression and hesitation to respond stem from an internal struggle—a war between providing an answer that keeps you comfortable and sharing the truth. It’s a conflict between what might spare us both discomfort and honoring Lily’s memory.
It’s not that I think you’ll lack empathy. You might be carrying your own grief. Perhaps you need me to open up about my story so you can share yours and honor your own loss.
This issue isn’t limited to strangers’ inquiries. It cuts deep every time I fill out a form asking about my children. It’s present in my conversations about parenting my two girls. It comes rushing forward when I hire a babysitter for two kids.
Every time I say “two” instead of “three,” a small piece of my heart breaks. Yet, the undeniable fact remains that I am raising two daughters and not three. No amount of wishing can bring back my other child.
Do I find solace in the fact that Lily’s twin sister, Emma, is alive and thriving? Absolutely. But it can be hard to look at Emma and see the reminder of what could have been.
I wish I could articulate my feelings better when people ask me about my children. Yet, after three and a half years, I still struggle to find the right words. I know there isn’t a perfect response, but I just wish it wasn’t so incredibly difficult.
I wish none of this had happened. I wish I could snuggle with three little girls on the couch, read them bedtime stories, and not have an urn on my fireplace. I wish I didn’t have a death certificate in the filing cabinet or a memorial garden in my yard in honor of my daughter. I wish that the mention of Lily’s name or the word “twin” didn’t feel like a knife to my heart.
There are many things I wish for, but I also realize I must live and love my husband and two daughters to the best of my ability.
If there is a reason behind Lily’s passing, perhaps it’s to guide me in supporting others who have faced similar heartaches. We might not have all the answers, but we are trying—trying to survive, trying to be happy, and trying to navigate this complicated journey.
So please be gentle and understanding with grieving parents who must answer the toughest question. Your kindness can truly make a difference amidst unimaginable pain.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the emotional turmoil faced by a grieving parent when asked about the number of children they have. The author shares their struggle with loss and the internal conflict between honesty and maintaining comfort in social situations. The narrative emphasizes the importance of empathy and understanding towards parents navigating their grief.