It has been quite the journey, but I’ve finally found comfort in my own skin. I cherish the way my life has unfolded: a supportive partner, a delightful daughter, two children watching over us from above, and a global network of friends and family. However, anyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one knows that life can change in an instant. One small trigger can transport you back to a moment of sorrow. This summer, I faced that reality head-on. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but as a mother who has endured child loss, I found myself grappling with unexpected jealousy.
My husband, Mark, and his childhood friends organized a weekend retreat in Omaha, Nebraska. It was an opportunity for families to gather, let the kids play, and reconnect. I knew Mark was eager to see his friends, and I was excited for our daughter, Lily, to finally meet these families. Due to our surviving triplet’s delicate health, Lily had spent her first three years primarily at home, where traveling posed too many risks. This weekend was a chance for our miracle child to meet the people who had supported us through thick and thin.
Upon arrival, we met our friends at the zoo—four men who had stood by each other since childhood, all now married with beautiful families. As I watched the dads engaging with their kids, I felt a rush of happiness. But a glance around reminded me that my husband and I were the only couple with just one child. Suddenly, my grief hit me like an unexpected summer storm, leaving me drenched in sadness.
It’s been three years since we lost two of our triplets. That should have been enough time to become adept at concealing my tears. As we strolled through the zoo, I focused on Lily, delighting in her laughter over a giraffe and her awe at a giant ape. Yet, as the hours passed, the weight of my grief lingered, and so did my envy.
I watched each family in their element, juggling toddlers while soothing crying children. They made parenting look effortless—like a well-oiled machine. The tears formed in my eyes, thankfully hidden behind my sunglasses.
The weekend was a success; the children had a blast, and we returned home exhausted from laughter and stories. I genuinely enjoyed seeing my husband’s friends thrive as loving family men. But as we drove home, I opened up to Mark. The tears I had been suppressing turned into full-fledged sobs. I shared my feelings of sadness as I witnessed the sibling interactions—instant best friends for 24 hours. I realized that Lily may never have that experience. Without her triplet siblings, she often plays alone or with just her mom and dad.
However, as I expressed my emotions, a realization dawned on me. My jealousy stemmed not from envy but from my grief. I truly feel joy for our friends and their families. Watching them flourish brings me happiness, even as I navigate my own heartache.
We all carry our own burdens, some more visible than others. The grief I hold for the loss of my two triplets is a constant companion, transforming but never truly disappearing. I wear my grief like a badge, a testament to the existence of my children.
As I glanced back at my sleeping daughter, a wave of gratitude washed over me. Although my heart bears scars of sorrow, I am thankful for the family I have. It’s okay to feel sadness when I see other families and wonder what might have been if all my triplets had survived. It’s part of the journey of being a grieving parent. Yet, when I look at Mark and Lily, I appreciate how my grief has evolved over time. Those fleeting moments of sadness often give way to pure delight. Our little family is perfect in its own unique way, showcasing resilience and miracles.
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Summary
The article discusses the complex emotions of a mother who has lost two of her triplets while navigating feelings of jealousy during a family gathering. It reflects on grief, the joys of motherhood, and the struggles of being a grieving parent, ultimately highlighting the importance of gratitude and resilience in the face of loss.