One night in the April that they were 4 and 9, my two sons were tucked into their beds by their loving young father, Richard.  That was to be the last time they saw him.  The next morning, they woke up to learn that he was dead from a heart attack. Our world had shattered overnight.  The boys cried in pain and bewilderment—and so did I.

Over the next months, I struggled to find what pieces of our lives could stay the same, what could be there in altered form, what could now only be held in memory, and what new pieces had to be created.  Each option mingled the greatest sorrow I had ever known along with resolve to keep going for the boys.  Now it was time for Thanksgiving, our first major holiday without Richard.

Thanksgiving had always been the holiday associated with Richard’s family.  Every year of the boys’ lives, we had traveled to Boston for a big reunion of his extended family. Aunts and uncles, first cousins, first cousins once removed, second cousins, and more, all came together from all over the country to the be together with the grandparent generation.

In the early years, it had taken me some time to get used to the crowds.  It wasn’t anything like the quiet Christmases we spent with my parents and my brother’s family. Once, when our older son was about 7, he commented thoughtfully that he knew Thanksgiving was a Jewish holiday because it was the holiday he always spent with the Jewish side of his family.

The boys and I were tense as we got ready to make the plane trip from Chicago.  I felt lonely preparing to make the journey as the only adult.  The older boy was anxious and the younger one was cranky as we packed.  Yet I knew that it was crucial for them to have this continuity.  Not all of life as they knew it had stopped with their father’s death.  So we went.

Fortunately, some wonderful friends offered to drive us to the airport.  Their calm, caring presence helped us to feel we could do this.

Then Richard’s parents met us at the Boston airport.  The boys fell into their arms.  And all through the weekend, they were reminded that they were loved, that they belonged, that they would be held by bonds that had lasted and would continue to last through generations—and I was, too.

Losing their father didn’t mean that they lost his family.  That year and every year, family members told stories about Richard to his sons, shared pictures and mementos, as well as making an effort to know and value each of the boys as a unique individual.

Now the boys are young men preparing to go to Boston with their wives for Thanksgiving.  My new husband and I will join them there.  None of us would dream of missing it.

Anne Berenberg 2010