To my Daughter's First Mother

To my Daughter's First Mother,


It's been four years since you went to Heaven, and almost four years since I married your husband and took over the mothering of your girls. I've often wished that I could talk to you about this life we've made. If you approve, if you disapprove, if I'm doing it right, or doing it all wrong...

There have been minutes of absolute despair and frustration when I wished I could ask you a question... how did you deal with this problem, and what would you say here? You hold the knowledge and memories to the first 8 and 10 years of our daughter's lives, yet, we'll never be able to sit over a cup of tea and talk those things through. I'll never be able to know you, though in my heart I imagine what you were like.

I've gained a broken image, words and snippets from Andrew, and pictures from the girls. You were their hero, the person who did everything right, and made everything fun. You liked football, cheered for the Jets, and hated Tom Brady. You enjoyed cooking, and I still have your cookbook in my kitchen cupboard for those meals that have to be "just like Mom used to make." Your handwriting was bubbly and neat, careful and precise. You enjoyed going to the salon, getting your nails and hair done, and wearing red lipstick. You were shorter than me, had tiny feet, and preferred gold jewelry over silver. This is what I know of you, these tiny little snippets that are supposed to carry my curious mind through.

I've had time to develop my own perceptions too, piecing together what life must have been like with you. I know the kids had never made their own beds, I know they didn't pick up their toys, and were quite angry at me when I expected differently. I know you took day trips to the zoo and to the mall, and that you'd rather do those things than stay home. I imagine you spoiled the girls because you knew you had cancer, and I imagine you decided you'd rather enjoy your time left with them than worry about the state of your home. But it was much different for me when I came into the picture. I expected a tidy home, clean children, and picked up toys. I had a hard time those first few months mothering our children, because you had raised them so much differently than I would have done. And truth be told, we are still facing those challenges.

You should have seen me in those first months when the girls got sick and I needed to bring them to Urgent Care. What were their birthdays again? What was their middle name, and how was it spelled? Had they had surgeries, allergies, previous medications? I've had to piece together family history, and medical records that I didn't sign off on. I've stood like a fool, not even knowing my child's birthday…because I wasn't the one who gave them birth.

I've had a lot of angry moments, frustrated with you, jealous of you, and even mad at you. If there's anything I've learned, it's that you and I are completely different, and I've struggled with the rosy image your memory holds. I can't compete with you, I can't keep up. I got the kids at a hard age, pre-adolecent, and already trained. Too young to take care of themselves, but too old to accept someone new. There have been selfish hours when I pitied myself, feeling like I was left in the wake of your tragic death, only to be the one to fix the mess, to pick up the pieces, and to walk through the very long and dark valley of grief with our children.

Of course you didn't intend for any of these things. You didn't know when you were going to die. Your friends and family were as shocked as you were, I suppose, completely taken off guard on the day God called you home. You were just supposed to be gone for a few weeks, receiving treatment, and home by Christmas. But God had a different plan, and He took you home before there was time to prepare, time to plan, time to say goodbye…

I wish there had been time. I wish you could have written goodbye letters, made a video, or left special mementos for the girls. I'm sure you would have wanted to do that too. Instead, the girls are left with a pair of your shoes, a Jets hoodie, and a small box of pictures. I packed up your fine jewelry safely, and tucked them away for when the girls are older. I disassembled your funeral collages, placing your pictures in a box. I read through the words people wrote for you in the guest book, and framed certain letters for the girls. I sorted your mail as it came to my door, and hung my winter coats next to yours in the hall closet. I had your wedding dress hung neatly next to my own dresses for months after I moved in, but finally had to give it to your Mom, because I just couldn't stare your perfect size 6 in the face anymore. I wrapped your wedding flutes in paper, your cake topper, and wedding video in a box, and they now sit in our attic, waiting for the kids in case they want them later on. The girls have plans of wearing your gown on their own wedding days, and in the back of my heart I've felt pings of pain, wishing they wanted parts of my dress too. I've hung your pictures up in my home, and created memory boxes for the girls, but still, there's just so little to keep at the end of a life.

It's hard being in your shadow, raising our children, but never being the Mom. I'm the one here, picking up where you left off, standing in your stead, but you're the one they're missing. I realize now, as Abby is going through the rough teenage years, that as she pushes me away, she's really just trying to hold onto you. I'd give anything to hear: "I love you, Mom!" from Abby & Lauren, but I've come to accept that that may just never happen, and I have to be OK with that. I have to keep loving them, pouring into them, and teaching them. I have to be the one to show them how to keep a house, cook a meal, do their homework, and keep themselves clean. I'm the one walking them through puberty, first crushes, and friendship drama. I'm the one here, but you're the one they want. We share daughters, but I'll never be the Mom.

I cried when Abby went to her first dance last year, thinking of you and what you were missing. I cried realizing Lauren was reaching puberty, and the fact that you probably wouldn't even recognize your girls on the street if you passed them. They've grown so much in 4 short years. You've missed so much, and as I look ahead to our future, I cry for the milestones you'll miss. I try to think of ways to include you, ways to honor you, and make sure the girls have room to express their grief and memories. I imagine there will be a chair set aside for you at their weddings, a picture, or trinket at the guest book table. I'll be the one zipping up their dress and fixing their veil, but your memory will be there too, and I'm sure there will be a certain sadness in the air as they wish you were there. I've come to see that no matter how much living I do with the girls, no matter how many new memories we make, nothing will ever take your place, of lessen the pain in their hearts. I'll never be able to fix that, and I just have to accept that. My heart hurts for you, and all the things you're missing. But that drives me to live as fully as I can, to make every birthday and holiday special. I write birthday letters to the girls, telling them things I imagine you'd want them to know, lessons I imagine you'd want to teach them, and words of wisdom I imagine you'd give. I talk about you, and I try to make sure I'm taking pictures of everything, and not letting anything pass me by. I'm building memories for them, and for me, and for you too…thinking ahead to Heaven and the day I get to meet you.

Because of you, I've been faced with my own mortality. I stare into the faces of our children, and my own baby girl, and I can't help but beg God for a lifetime with them. I carry your short life with me everywhere I go, fully aware that it could have been me. We never know when God will take us home, but I ask Him every day for one more day. My heart carries the pain of not enough hugs, not enough kisses, not enough time, and the life you left behind.

You play this enormously gigantic role in my life, yet I still don't get to know you, or talk to you, or express these things to you. How could someone I've never even met, mean so much to me, and effect me so much? It's because I'm raising your children, calling them my own, and married to the man you used to call your husband. I share my life with you, though people tell me I don't. People like to tell me that I'm not in competition, that you're not coming back, that I belong here now, that you're gone…but I know differently. I know that my life will alway be shared with you, like an elephant in the room that is just there, though we learn to walk around it.

God's created a beautiful thing here, giving me Andrew and your girls. We've learned how to love each other and build a family. Andrew and I have another beautiful daughter together, and one on the way. Abby and Lauren have found a way to accept this new life, even when we have to limp along. We live a beautiful story of God's faithfulness, healing, hope, and honesty. But there are places in our story that will always carry around the pain of your death, that separation, and the pain of Heaven being so very far away. Andrew and the girls have learned to live without you, but I try to make sure they never forget you.

You're my sister in Christ, and God put me here to raise your children the best I can, and honor you along the way. I've come to respect you, despite our differences, and I suppose I've found ways to even love you, as I love your girls and husband and make your family my own. God's walking me down a journey of growth and grace, facing me with challenges I never expected, but holding my hand every step, and guiding me as I fumble along. I can't help but think that you would do this better, their natural Mom, but I promise you I am doing my best.

I know we can't sit and talk these things through, but this letter will have to do. At least I don't have to carry these words around anymore, and maybe that will bring me some peace. I've come clean with you, come clean with your memory, and come to peace with the Mom you were, and the Mom I will be. I'll never forget the life you didn't have the chance to live, and I promise to live mine thankful for the life I now have, and the way that ties us together forever.


Until we meet in glory,

Your Daughter's Second Mother