Six months ago, my daughter and her husband died in a plane crash. At 71, I became the guardian of their four children. Then a huge package arrived, containing a letter from my late daughter.
It revealed a truth she had carried to the grave and changed everything I believed about her final days.
My name is Carolyn. I’m 71, and six months ago, my life split into before and after.
My daughter, Darla, and her husband were flying to another city for a work trip. They left their four children with me for the weekend.
The plane never made it.
Engine failure. No survivors.
Just like that, they were gone.
I became both mother and grandmother to four children who didn’t understand why their parents weren’t coming home.
Lily was nine. Ben was seven. Molly was five.
And Rosie had just turned four.
Lily, Ben, and Molly understood enough to grieve. Rosie was still waiting, still believing her parents would walk through the door.
At first, I didn’t know how to tell her. How do you explain death to children that young?
So when Rosie asked where Mommy was, I said, “She’s on a very long trip, sweetheart.
But Grandma’s here. I’ll always be here.”
It was a lie wrapped in love. But it was the only way I could keep her from falling apart completely.
***
The first few weeks were unbearable.
The kids cried at night.
Lily stopped eating. Ben wet the bed for the first time in years.
I was drowning. My pension wasn’t enough to support all of us.
So I had to go back to work.
At 71, nobody wanted to hire me. But I found a job at a diner on Route 9. I wiped down tables, washed dishes, and took orders.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But it paid enough to keep us afloat.
And in the evenings, I’d knit scarves and hats to sell at the weekend market for extra money.
Every morning, I’d drop the three older kids at school and Rosie at daycare. Then I’d work until 2 p.m.
Pick them up. Make dinner. Help with homework.
And read bedtime stories.
Six months passed like that. Slowly, painfully, we started to find a rhythm.
But the grief never left.
It just learned how to sit quietly in the corner.
I told myself every day that I was doing enough. That keeping them fed and safe was enough.
But deep down, I wondered if I was failing my grandchildren.
One morning, I dropped the kids off as usual.
I was halfway to work when I realized I’d forgotten my purse at home. I turned around and drove back.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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