As I write this, Hubby is on a plane, headed to his home country.*
His uncle died on Friday.
His father’s only brother, the one who never married, never had children of his own, who spoiled his nephews and their children instead.
The one whose generosity, in part, allowed us to complete a second cycle of IVF, which resulted in our daughter. Before he even met her in person, he said, “Never have I invested so little and gotten so much.” That investment might give her a sibling, too, and he’ll never know.
He was 87. He lived a long life, with friends and hobbies that kept his mind sharp. It was his body that couldn’t quite keep up.
When I put Missy to bed tonight, after trying to explain why we’d been missing Aba, why we’d all been sad, in a way her 2-year-old brain could comprehend, she kept repeating, “T. died. Aba saying bye to T.” And even though we had decided it would be better for him to go by himself, rather than subject Missy to a long day of travel and a disrupted schedule, just to turn around a few days later and do it again, I wished we had gone with him. Not that being there would help her understand, but at least we’d be able to process it together.
*I started writing this Sunday night. But we were right to keep Missy home. He said he’d only gotten two hours of sleep on the plane (and that was after a five-hour trip, via train and underground, to even get to the airport).
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