Grief, Presence, and the Mistake I Can’t Undo

Four days before our dream trip, my stepson Lir died in a car crash. He was fifteen—brilliant in flashes, stubborn, and sweet. He called me “Dree” and laughed like he meant it.

I should’ve stayed. Instead, I packed.

“You can stay,” I told my husband. “But I’ve worked too hard to give this up.”

He flew to California to help his ex. I boarded the ship like a ghost.

On night three, he called.

“You will regret this for the rest of your life,” he said. Then quieter: “I think you’re exactly who I thought you were. I just didn’t want to see it.” Click.

When we docked, I hid in a motel. Two days later: I’m moving out. I’ll get my stuff when you’re not there.

Then Lir’s mom, Rania, called. Over coffee, she slid me a photo of Lir at eight.

“He told me he wanted dinner with you both next week. His idea,” she said. “He knew about the cruise. He said he was glad you were taking time for yourselves. He didn’t want to be a burden.”

I sobbed, loud and messy, because I hadn’t been forgiven—but I also hadn’t been erased.

Later, I told my husband: “I didn’t know how to show up for grief I didn’t think I had the right to. I chose control. I was wrong.”

“You always thought love meant staying out of the way,” he said. “But love needs you in it.”

Now we volunteer with grieving families. I tell them: your grief counts, even if your title feels small.

If you’re at the edge of a hard moment—don’t run. Sit. Stay. It matters more than you think.