My former mother-in-law, Charlotte, died today. She went the way many of us hope to, in her sleep, and in her 90s. But I am rather shocked at the depth of the loss I am feeling. She was a deeply good woman who was kind and forgiving. She walked beside me, a quiet, unassuming but constant presence, through some of the hardest and most painful years of my life, and she was always there.  She forgave me my youthful pride, and she quietly loved us, through and after the loss of her son, my former husband, my children’s father. Her loss is being deeply felt in our hearts.

I humbly offer this piece I wrote about her a while back, when I realized what a gift she was to me, and to my children. If there is a merciful and loving God, then David was there waiting for her this morning, and she is wrapped in light and free of pain.

Our hearts are broken today.

I owe my former mother-in-law an apology. Years ago, back when life was safe and normal, and my then-husband was allowing me the luxury of staying home with my babies, I had a very unforgiving opinion of my then-mother-in-law. I’ve long-since revised that opinion privately (and to her), but it occurred to me I wrote some very harsh and frank pieces about my interactions with her, and while I have experienced the shift and nuance of that relationship changing, my written record, and what stands as a testament to my character, has not reflected those changes.

My MIL and I are very different people. Our life-experiences and generational perspective are worlds apart— and while that can probably be said of most women in our stations, here it’s particularly true. She had my husband later in life, and is actually older than my own grandmother would have been. It was easy for me to forget that she wasn’t of my mother’s generation, and actually had children the same age as my parents. It made for a complicated dynamic which I was not mature enough to fully understand. It’s likely I still can’t. But I at least wish to acknowledge my own complicity in what was so frequently a complicated and difficult relationship.

My MIL is a good person. Even when we seemed to be at cross-purposes, she was never unkind. She loves my children greatly, and has gone out of her way to always make sure they know it. When we’re young and have the hubris of still thinking we know ‘everything’ we can miss the subtlety of differing forms of expression. I made this mistake— a lot. Because my MIL did things differently than my own mother, differently than I would have, I felt secure in disregarding her perspective. I can’t imagine how frustrating this must have been to her, and I wish to apologize.

Throughout the colossal disaster of her son’s and my divorce, she continued, though I’m sure her heart was daily breaking, to reach out to me. It was actually in the painful shards of mutual loss of her son that I think I finally was able to see her as a mother and woman. Her continued kindness, despite my own howling pain, came to be something stable and reliable, and I am grateful to her for not giving up on me.

Now, nearly four years out from the divorce, and living across the country, we don’t see each other anymore. I still try and make sure she gets pictures of the kids, and I could certainly be better about having them call her. She still offers support and sends the kids cards and occasionally video chats with them. I’m grateful for her willingness to continue to help my ex-husband; it’s through her support that he is working on his recovery and able to successfully be a part of his kids’ lives, even if at a distance.

She has seen more than her share of heart-break, and as time has marched on, I have found my respect for her growing. I don’t know why some folks gets heaping piles of heartache in this life while others skate through… I may never understand. I am, however, deeply indebted and grateful to this particular woman, who has provided an example of compassionate love and forgiveness in the face of more than her share of tragedy.

I hope that sets the record straight.

Happy Spring! Let’s do a winter wrap-up before I start really trying to look forward.

It has been the cold season of brake-jobs for Jon and Jeffrey. Together they replaced the brakes on the family car, then Jeffrey, with Jon’s oversight replaced the brakes on Jon’s commuter car. Once that was done, Jeff moved on to replacing the brakes on his own car. It took a couple of weekends, some You-Tube videos, and a few seriously busted knuckles, but our cars all stop and also don’t make any terrible noises. Ordering the parts and doing the labor ourselves literally saved a couple thousand dollars, and we have a kid who feels pretty confident in his abilities and proud of himself.

Bean has started playing quidditch—I mean, Lacrosse. I was trying to describe it to someone the other day, and “quidditch” was I could come up with, drawing a total blank on lacrosse. It’s been a long time finding him a sport he enjoys; the chaos of team sports is hard for sensory kids, but this one finally seems to have clicked. He really genuinely loves it, and has been working hard. He also really loves carrying a big stick.

Kelsey turned 16 and Abby is getting ready to turn 13, which will bring our household total officially to four teenagers, two cats, one enormous dog, and two flummoxed and tired parents. Kelsey gets her driver’s license the same time Bean can get his permit. I’m not sure we’re ready for this, but that’s pretty much the story of parenting: You’re never ready.

It’s harder than I thought it would be trying to choose a law school. So far I’ve been accepted into three programs, am waitlisted on another, and haven’t heard yet from the remaining three schools. The clock is ticking on making a decision—I have until mid-April before I have to commit. It’s harder than I expected. There is one program I particularly love, but it has some real hurdles to our family if I take it. There is another that’s significantly more convenient for our family, but isn’t as appealing academically to me. I haven’t figured out what the right path is yet. It’s nice to have options. But it’s also a little scary.

It’s been a tough season for grief. This surprised me, though I feel like it shouldn’t. I think maybe that’s just the way it goes.

We picked me up a little inexpensive commuter car. After driving big family-mobiles for the better part of two decades, it’s pretty delightful to be in something small, fuel efficient, and zippy. She’s a stick, which is also utterly delightful, and which all children will now learn. I have named her Stella Blue. Abby will turn 16 when I’m graduating from law school, and I suspect Stella will convey over at that point.

This might be burying the lede, but we had some wonderful news family-wise yesterday. Our extended family is gaining two new cousins, who have come to us through the foster  system. We are over the moon that these children, who we already love so much, are going to be adopted in and be our family forever.

Bean has some exciting peanut-butter and austin related news we’ve been working on for months, and I think next week we’ll be able to make it public.

If you read my memoir, The Burning Point, you might remember my first apartment, across the street from David’s white-painted victorian? I found an old picture, and you can see the piano-shop sign on the building next to it, and my first bug, Apple, parked in front. My apartment was the second story, the open window is the kitchen.

The sun is very definitely in Pisces, and it feels like you.  It also feels like home to me. Of course it does, I can hear your laughter and see you pointing at me. I think it’s your laughter I miss almost more than I miss being able to talk to you. As the kids get older, there are so many times I want to reach for the phone, to get your input, your wisdom. I’m a little surprised to find myself occasionally mad. Grief is such a fluid animal. I know you didn’t leave on purpose, but dammit, sometimes I get angry that you’re gone. I recognize that’s about me, and is mine to deal with, but I also know you well enough to know that you’d nod and tell me that it was okay, feelings just are what they are.

Each night lately, the kids all gather in the bedroom with Jon and I, and I read a chapter of the book I wrote about us. Between the five adult-sized humans, the giant dog, and now two cats (did I tell you that? we added cats) the room is overflowing. Bean usually lays on the floor with the dog, while Abby and Jeff take the two reading chairs. The cats do whatever the hell they want, because they’re cats. All three of the kids wanted to read the book, but all three said it was really hard, and having me do it would help. Thus began our evening project. The best part is that we can stop, talk about what’s happening, and I can fill in details and answer questions, and they can discover their own memories tied to where we are in the book. It turns out writing is an excellent way to preserve memories. Who knew? There is a feeling of closeness and anticipation that I didn’t expect; three teenagers actually want to listen to their mom read every night.

It’s also allowed me to see how small a sliver of who we were that I’ve managed to preserve. But it’s better than nothing.

Remember how I said I was going to maybe focus on something more academic for the future? Well, I applied to law school. I know, right?! I’ve spent the better part of a year on it, but we’re in the home-stretch now; I’m getting back answers on my applications. It’s all theoretical until you get that yes… but what an impact that yes makes when it comes. So far, I have heard back from two of the half dozen schools where I applied. Both said yes. It feels surreal and I never imagined I could actually do this—I have some imposter syndrome crap to work through, but it looks like I’m going to law school. I can hear you laughing, saying give me a bucket, because of course.

Jeffrey is getting ready to graduate high school. That’s even more surreal than me going to law school. He’s nearly the same age I was when we met. He’s such a good kid, you’d be insanely proud of him. Just this week we got an email from is criminal justice teacher praising his character and recommending him for a scholarship. He’s interested in forensics and investigative law enforcement, and he was accepted to Utah State. I’m not sure any of us are ready for that, either—including him. But he’s also brave and has a very strong sense of self and who he is. He wants to do good in the world.

Bean has had quite a year. He’s become something of a minor celebrity. Through a series strange and weirdly modern events, he won a lifetime supply of peanut butter from a German grocery store chain. Because he’s Bean, he looked at that lifetime supply and told me we needed to share it. So he did. With the help of the grocery store, he had two giveaways for furloughed federal workers, and then he donated another 1800 jars to a local food bank. He shrugs off the attention, and keeps being Bean. He’s started playing lacrosse, and is enjoying it far more than football. Hey says there are no asses on the lacrosse team. I trust him.

Abby flies under the radar as much as possible. She made all-county band and is an alternate for all-state band as a 12 year-old. We didn’t find out until we showed up for the concert and looked at the program. She just kept telling us she had a band thing, but she didn’t think it was a big deal. (The two cats are hers, by the way.) She’s insanely talented at drawing, but her real passions is still in science. She goes to the high school with her brothers each morning for classes before heading back to the middle school to finish her day. She’s finding her grove and has a quiet Taurean resiliency about her.

Our tradition now is to celebrate your birthday each year with Hobbees shakes and papa’s papas. Tonight, Bean has a lacrosse game, so our birthday meal is being pushed to tomorrow morning instead. When we discussed this last night, the kids all felt you’d understand, and that you’d probably rather watch Bean play his game anyway.

There are times it feels like you’ve been gone for a lifetime, and there are times it still feels like yesterday. I hope you are occasionally able to be nearby, and that you can see or feel the kind, decent, beautiful humans our children are becoming. I often think about what you said after Jeffrey was born. You told me it wasn’t about us anymore. That, to paraphrase Kahlil Gibran, our children were the arrows we would launch into the future, and life was now theirs. You weren’t wrong. You seldom were.

We miss you. I hope you have found peace.

Tracy Leigh