When I arrived, I asked her for a serious conversation and told her everything Cindy and I discussed. My mother’s face contorted, her eyes rapidly filling with tears.
“Oh, Ruby,” she said. “I’m so sorry.
I didn’t think that she would get spooked by it.” “Spooked?” I asked. “Spooked by what?” Listen, my love,” Mom said, reaching across the couch to hold my hand.
“I still feel your father,” she said. “And I know that it’s not healthy, but I do.
And sometimes I still talk to him.” My heart broke for my mother.
I had a tough time coming to terms with my father’s death. But I didn’t think that her pain was so deeply rooted. “I speak to him constantly, Ru,” Mom continued.
“It started when I was alone, and then it became a coping mechanism.
I’ve mentioned it to Cindy a few times. Not to scare her, just as a reminder that Grandpa is around.”
“Mom, I get it. I understand that this is how you’re coping with Dad’s death.
But Cindy doesn’t understand it like that.” We spent a few hours on the couch just sitting and reminiscing about my father.
“Come,” Mom said after a while. “I have donuts.” Over donuts and coffee, I told Mom that she needed to sit down and explain everything to Cindy. “Let her hear it from you,” I said.
Mom nodded.
She understood that while it was a sweet gesture for her to do — a coping mechanism of sorts — it just wasn’t healthy for Cindy to assume that there was an imaginary friend whom she couldn’t see.
“I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” “I know,” I said. “I believe you.
Do you think that it’s time to see a psychologist?” “Oh, Ruby,” Mom said.
“Are we there yet?” “Yes,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to Dad, but it’s the fact that Cindy isn’t sure about spending time with you because of the William thing.”
“Fine,” Mom said. “I’ll do it.” It’s been a few months now, and Mom has been going to therapy regularly.
It has improved her mood, and she has started painting again.
Now, it’s something that she and Cindy do together. My daughter was a lot more understanding than I assumed she would be. She loved spending time with her grandmother again.
And if Mom ever spoke to my Dad, she never did it in front of us any more.
We all seemed to be on the path to healing.
Here’s another story for you: One day, you might turn to your loved one, only to find an empty space and regret like Hugo.
He was always ashamed of his late Grandma Rosemary, who worked as a street sweeper. He condemned her when he got only an urn of ashes after her death until it shattered on the floor…
