When Love Stays

When you’re a parent, all you really want is to be there for your children.
To be enough.
To show up.
To teach them.
To hold their hand when something feels too big.

I don’t think we ever imagine a world where someone wants nothing more than to be there for their children—and life doesn’t let them.

Last winter, when we first moved to Canada without Sean, I took the kids skating for the first time by myself. I cried the entire time. Not quietly. Not gracefully. I cried because I didn’t know how to teach them like him. Because Sean was the Canadian one. Because skating was his thing. Because I felt completely out of place, overwhelmed, and terrified that I wouldn’t be enough for them.

But I kept going.

I took them again.
And again.
And again.

At times, a familiar thought crosses my mind—the one many widowed parents know too well. The hope that maybe, just for a moment, something will feel easier. That maybe someone could help. That the weight might lift without me having to carry it all.

But it always comes back to the same truth: this is ours to figure out, together.

Sometimes grief plays cruel tricks on you. It whispers that your children need more than you. That they’re missing something essential. That you are somehow falling short.

But then reality steps in.

I watch my children steady themselves, try again, fall, and get back up. I see confidence built through repetition. I see my hand always there for them. I see love.
Not perfection.
Not expertise.
Just presence.

And it hits me: I’ve been doubting myself for nothing.

People think they understand what it is to lose Sean. They think they understand what my children and I are going through. They don’t. Not even close. Whatever someone imagines this experience to be, it would need to be tripled—maybe quintupled—just to scratch the surface.

Grief is not universal. Loss is not comparable. The pain of losing a spouse is different from losing a parent, a sibling, or a friend. All are unbearable in their own way. But watching children lose their entire world—their hero, their safety, their joy, their person—that is something else entirely.

And yet… children are resilient when they are deeply loved.

I look at families and see how instinctively parents find patience, kindness, and understanding for their own children. And through this journey, I’ve learned something important:

A parent isn’t defined by nationality, biology, or skill.
A parent is the one whose heart belongs to the child.
Sean’s heart and mine are the ones that belong completely to Gab, to Charlie, and to Kate.
The one who stays.
The one who tries again.
The one who doesn’t walk away when it gets hard.

Real love is patient.
Real love is uncomfortable.
Real love doesn’t quit when things don’t go smoothly.

I may not know everything. I may still cry sometimes—often silently—but I am here.
Fully.
Completely.
Unconditionally.

And to my children, especially my little boy:
We’ve got this.
We always have.
Together.

To every parent walking this road alone, doubting themselves, feeling like they are not enough—I see you. I hear you. And I promise you this:

Your presence matters more than perfection.
Your love is teaching them more than you will ever realize.

And that… is everything.

For Sean—who wanted nothing more than to be there, and somehow still is.
Always, Mi Amor.