Of course I’m far from alone in this experience, but out of all the fellow adult orphans out there, no one understands my feelings as much as the one other person who has suffered the exact same loss as me: my sister. Even in our grief, we are struck by how many people have pointed out our new orphan status; a special shout out to the person who texted my sister, “You ate an orphan now.” (Damn you, autocorrect.) And as others remind us – perhaps a little too bluntly – with both our parents gone, we are next in line. They’re not wrong. With the roof gone, we’re suddenly closer to the great beyond.
The author as a child with her father.
In the last few months I found myself wanting to call my dad just to hear his voice, ask him a question, share my results in the Good Weekend quiz (he rarely scored below 20 out of 25) and, today, wish him a happy Father’s Day. The realisation that I never will again feels like being winded. My mother died almost five years ago and I still catch myself thinking, “I’ll call Mum.” Then, just as quickly, I remember.
Losing both parents isn’t just about missing them, it’s also about losing a sense of history. They were the keepers of so many stories: about my childhood, about our family, about themselves. Now those stories belong only to memory. So who will remind me of the things I was too young to remember? Who will answer the questions I never thought to ask?
There is also an odd sense of responsibility in the midst of the grief. Now that our parents are gone, the weight of family history now sits with my sister and me. It is up to us to pass down the stories, to share the photos and to answer the questions as best as we can.
I don’t know when this new reality will stop feeling so raw. Maybe it never does. But what I do know is that I carry my parents with me: in the love they gave me and in the way I love my own children. I guess that’s the real lesson of loss: the ones we love never really leave us. They remain in the countless ways they shaped who we are. The house still stands even without the roof. And I will keep standing, too. The sun will come out tomorrow.
Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.