I’m 29 years old and my name is Abigail. My parents were at my brother’s pool party while I was alone at my daughter Emily’s funeral.
Emily died of SIDS when she was just six months old. My mother’s callous comments, “It’s just a baby,” echoed in my head as I watched her miniature casket being put into the ground. The party for your brother is more important. That moment hurt me in a way that can’t be fixed.
I always knew what my place in life was. My brother Jason was the best. He is 32 years old now. From the moment he was born, our parents, Margaret and Richard, were proud and happy with him. People were happy for him when he did well, but they didn’t care about my triumphs. Even when I received straight A’s, I only got half-hearted congratulations.
By the time I arrived to high school, I had accepted my station. I worked hard on my schoolwork and made friends with folks who actually cared about me. I met Michael while I was in my second year of college. His family was very different from mine since they were loving and caring. I thought it was bogus at first. But as time went on, I saw that their love was real.
We got married three years ago when we were both 27 years old. As soon as we told them we were having a baby, his parents started planning a baby shower. What did my mom and dad say? “That’s nice.” Did Jason say he might get a raise? They came to the shower, but most of the time they spoke about Jason’s vacation.
Emily arrived on a snowy January day. I can’t say how much I adored holding her. Michael’s parents came a few hours later, crying with joy. My parents came over the next day, but they only stayed for less than an hour since they had to go have their hair done. For the next six months, Michael’s parents came to see him every week. Mine came twice.
Jason proposed to Emily two months before we lost her. My parents promptly started planning a lavish party for the same weekend as Emily’s church dedication. When I reminded them, my mom said, “We’ll have to skip that.” Jason’s engagement is a very special event.
I wanted to say, “So is a baby dedication,” but I didn’t.
The week before she died, Emily was a bit unwell. At the end of the week, she looked better. I didn’t know they were the last days we would see her.
We put her to bed like we do every Tuesday night. The baby monitor didn’t make any noise. I was worried when I woke up at 6:00 AM. I found Emily in her crib, where she was cold and not moving.
I said “Emily” quietly and caressed her cheek. She didn’t move.
For the next few hours, everything is a blur: screaming, Michael trying CPR, calling 911, paramedics, and a kind doctor saying, “I’m so sorry.” It looks like Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
I called my mom with hands that were shaking. I said, “Emily died last night,” with a lot of trouble.
“Oh, Abby, that’s awful,” she said in a very direct way. Take your time. Not at ease. I added, “We need to make plans for the funeral.”
“Yes, let us know when,” she said.
Michael’s parents were already on their way.
We set the time for the funeral on Friday at 11 a.m. “Oh dear, that’s the day of Jason’s pool party,” my mom said when I told her. We already have things to do.
“Mom, it’s Emily’s funeral,” I said, astonished.
“I know, but Jason’s engagement is a big deal.” Emily was merely a child. You can have another one.
It felt like someone had punched me. “I see,” I said, and then I hung up.
It was a horrible and beautiful day for the funeral. I checked my phone on the way to the cemetery, but there were no messages from my parents. Jason texted me, “Sorry about the baby.” I hope the funeral goes well. I’m really looking forward to the celebration later.
The casket for Emily looked too small for words. Michael’s mom and dad were crying next to us. What about my mom and dad? Not here. During the service, Jason posted images from the party that showed our parents smiling with champagne glasses while their baby was buried.
A week later, my mom called. She asked, “How are you?” in a kind way.
I said to them, “You weren’t there when my daughter died.”
“That tone isn’t needed,” she replied. “Come over for dinner on Sunday.” Jason and Stephanie will be there.
I didn’t want to, but I agreed. The wedding was the main topic of the whole supper.
“Did Emily’s death ruin your party?” I finally asked.
“Let’s not talk about things that make us sad,” my mom replied.
“Are you talking about my child’s death?” I said.
“What is done is done,” my father said.
“That was two weeks ago!” I lost it.
Jason rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic, Abby.”
“Is it dramatic?” You didn’t arrive because of a pool party, and my daughter died!
“My mother said defensively, ‘It was a celebration.'”
“But not going to the funeral? “Just have another kid?”
Michael, who had been quiet until then, said something. “Do you even know what Abby has been through?”
“We told family members we missed it because we were sick,” my mom recalled. Your dad is back…
I said in a low voice, “You lied.”
“We couldn’t say we were at a party,” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I said as I stood up. “And I never will.” We left without saying anything else.
A few months later, I began going to counseling for grief. I came to understand that this problem went beyond Emily’s burial and included a lifetime of being ignored. I needed them to get it.
I invited them over, put a picture of Emily on the table, and carefully told them about every time she had been fired, from when she was a kid to now. I showed them the times from the party. My mom finally gave in.
“What do you want from us?” she asked.
“Just recognition.” No more excuses.
I sent them a letter telling them how much anguish I was in and why I needed space. “We can’t fix anything until you know everything that happened.”
“Is all of this really just about one missed event?” my dad said with a giggle.
I said, “It wasn’t just one thing.” “It was the last straw.”
“Please don’t go like this,” my mom cried as I left.
“I’ve always been here.” I answered, “You are not the ones.”
In the end, my dad drafted a letter by hand that read, “We were wrong…” I don’t think you’ll forgive me, but I’m sorry. My mom sent an ornament that had Emily’s name on it. “I should have been there.” That will always make me feel bad.
Jason even brought a rose bush for Emily’s memorial garden. He said, “I should have come.” “I’m sorry.”
The sadness didn’t go away, but their attempts to deal with it did help. I began to help other parents who were similarly sad. It provided me an excuse to be depressed.
On Emily’s first anniversary, we had a small ceremony. My parents didn’t say anything. Jason showed up too. I felt her there as we let go of the balloons, not in spirit but in the shift she made.
I lost my daughter, but I found my strength and a reason to do whatever I do in her memory.