It's Father's Day, and per our tradition, I served my husband breakfast in bed. The kids used to take part, but now it's just me. He does the same for me on Mother's Day. Of course, I make the better meal, but I'm the pro. We're going for a hike later and having a barbeque at our older son's house. It's a summery day, so perfect for our plans. I have to think of my first husband, the father of my older two kids, and how he is absent and has been so for long. Twenty seven years, to be exact. And he hadn't seen them in many years before that. Yet absence it is. I'd wish him here if I could. He'd be proud of them, and proud of my husband and me for our raising and loving of them. But what do I know of him and how he would have changed? I know he picked a terrific second wife, and his son from that marriage is a dear heart. But what would have happened to him? It is unknowable. His memory is certainly alive in all of us.
And what of my husband, who has had to play second fiddle to that memory yet take on all the responsibility? Stepdads are unsung heroes. He loves the older two as much as the younger two. He took them on from the very beginning of our relationship. In our marriage ceremony he vowed to love and honor them as well. All his mistakes and faults have been magnified, while the "real" father lives on, idealized, immutable, and a symbol for whatever purpose. The dead are with us always, and we never cease our mourning, but those of us who struggle on must appreciate ourselves for what we do quietly and well. Honor and persist.
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