I’m Abigail, and I’m 29 years old. My parents were at my brother’s pool party, so I was alone during my daughter Emily’s funeral.
When Emily was just six months old, SIDS took her from us. I heard my mother’s cruel words, “It’s just a baby,” as they put her small casket in the ground. Your brother’s celebration is more important. That moment hurt me in a way that can’t be fixed.
I always knew what I wanted in life. My brother Jason was the star. He is 32 years old now. From the day he was born, our parents, Margaret and Richard, were proud and happy with him. People cheered for his usual wins, but they hardly acknowledged mine. Even when I received straight A’s, people just half-heartedly congratulated me.
By the time I went to high school, I was okay with where I was. I worked hard at school and made friends with people who genuinely cared about me. When I was in my second year of college, I met Michael. His family was quite different from mine. They were kind and compassionate. I thought it was a hoax at first. But over time, I realized that their love was real.
Three years ago, when we were both 27, we got married. As soon as we told them we were having a baby, his parents started planning a baby shower. What did my parents tell me? “That’s nice.” Did Jason say he might obtain a better job? They came to the shower, but most of the time they spoke about Jason’s vacation.
It was January and there was snow on the ground when Emily arrived there. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed holding her. Michael’s parents came a few hours later, crying tears of joy. My parents came over the next day, but they only stayed for less than an hour since they had to go to a hair appointment. For the next six months, Michael’s parents came to see him once a week. Mine arrived two times.
Jason proposed two months before we lost Emily. My parents promptly began making plans for a lavish party that would be 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.
A week before she died, Emily was a bit unwell. She looked better at the end of the week. I didn’t know that they were the last days we would see her.
We put her to bed like we always do on Tuesday nights. The baby monitor wasn’t loud enough. At 6:00 AM, I woke up feeling afraid. Emily was in her crib, where she was still and chilly.
I said, “Emily,” and caressed her cheek. She didn’t move.
For the next several hours, things are a blur: screaming, Michael trying CPR, calling 911, paramedics, and a nice doctor softly saying, “I’m so sorry.” It seems like Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
My hands were shaking as I called my mom. I choked out, “Emily died last night.”
“Oh, Abby, that’s terrible,” she said without any emotion. No rush. Not at ease. “We need to plan a funeral,” I remarked.
“Yes, let us know when,” she said.
Michael’s parents were already on their way.
We set the funeral for Friday at 11 a.m. “Oh no, that’s the day of Jason’s pool party,” my mom said when I told her. We already have something planned.
I was astonished when I said, “Mom, it’s Emily’s funeral.”
“Yes, I know, but Jason’s engagement is a big deal.” Emily was only a tiny girl. You can have another one.
I felt like someone had punched me. I said, “I see,” and then I hung up.
The day of the funeral was both bad and good. I checked my phone on the way to the cemetery, but my parents hadn’t sent me any messages. Jason texted me to say, “Sorry about the baby.” I hope the funeral goes well. I can’t wait for the celebration to start.
The coffin for Emily looked too little for words. Next to us, Michael’s parents were crying. What about my mom and dad? Not here. Jason posted images from the event that showed our parents smiling with champagne glasses while their grandchild was buried.
A week later, my mom called. She casually said, “How are you?”
I said, “My daughter died, and you weren’t there.”
She remarked, “That tone isn’t needed.” “Come over for dinner on Sunday. Jason and Stephanie will be there.
I didn’t want to, but I said yes. The whole meal was about Jason’s wedding.
“Did the funeral for Emily ruin your party?” I finally asked.
My mom replied, “We shouldn’t talk about things that make us sad.”
“You mean my child’s death?” I said.
My father said, “It’s over.”
“That was two weeks ago!” I lost it.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Abby, you’re being overdramatic.”
“Is it dramatic? You didn’t arrive because of a pool party, and my daughter died!
“My mother said defensively, ‘It was a party.'”
“But not going to a funeral?” “Have another baby?”
Michael, who had been quiet until then, spoke up. “Do you even know what Abby has been through?”
My mom said, “We told our relatives we missed it because we were sick.” Your dad is back.
I said softly, “You lied.”
She said, “We couldn’t say we were at a party.”
“I don’t understand,” I said as I rose up. “And I never will.” We didn’t say anything else.
A few months later, I started going to counseling for grief. I saw that this problem was bigger than just Emily’s burial; it was a lifetime of not caring. I needed them to get it.
I took them over, put a picture of Emily on the table, and told them in detail about every time she had been let go, from when she was a child to now. I told them what time it was during the party. My mom finally gave in.
“What do you want from us?” she asked.
“Just recognition.” No more excuses.
I wrote them a letter telling them how much anguish I was in and why I needed space. “We can’t fix anything until you know what happened.”
“Is all of this really just about one missed event?” my dad inquired with a giggle.
I said, “It wasn’t just one thing.” “It was the last straw.”
As I went, my mom cried and said, “Please don’t go like this.”
“I’ve always been here.” I told them, “You guys weren’t.”
In the end, my dad drafted a letter by hand that read, “We were wrong…” I’m sorry, but I don’t think you will forgive me. My mom sent an ornament with Emily’s name on it. “I should have been there.” That will always make me feel bad.
Jason even brought a rose bush for the garden in memory of Emily. “I should have come,” he said. “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 made my sadness make sense.
On Emily’s first anniversary, we had a casual ceremony. My parents didn’t say anything. Jason came too. I felt her presence as we let go of the balloons, not in spirit but in the change she made happen.
I lost my daughter, but I found my strength and a reason to commemorate her in everything I do.
