When Father’s Day Hurts: Grief, Legacy, and the Love Greg Left Behind
Updated: Jun 17
June has arrived—the month where everything feels louder. The sun is brighter, the days are longer, and every store aisle is screaming “BUY A GIFT FOR DAD” like it’s a competitive sport.
For most people, it’s a reminder to grab a card or plan a cookout. For me, it’s more like a countdown I never signed up for.
This is my first Father’s Day without Greg, and my second without my dad, Dan. A double whammy. A grief sandwich. A “no thank you, I’d like to speak to the manager” moment with the universe.
And yet here we are.
If Father’s Day feels heavy for you too—whether you’ve lost your dad, or you’re a mom watching your kids miss theirs, or you’re grieving a father‑figure who shaped your life, or you’re a father carrying the ache of a child you no longer get to hold—I hope you find a piece of your own story here. Grief shows up in all kinds of ways, and every one of them is valid.
The Beginning: How Greg Became a Father
When I think about Greg as a father, my mind always drifts back to 1998—the beginning of everything. I can still see the excitement in his eyes when I told him I wanted to start a family. One month later, that life‑changing positive test appeared, and by 1999, Wyatt was here.
People talk about the “joy” of becoming a father, but that word never felt big enough for what I saw on Greg’s face. His entry into fatherhood wasn’t gentle or cinematic. It was forged in crisis. A medical complication during delivery left my lungs paralyzed, and for an hour, I was coding. Greg sat in a hospital nursery holding our newborn son, not knowing if I would survive.
That was the moment he became a father: in fear, in devotion, in the sharp clarity of almost losing everything.
Not exactly the Hallmark version, but definitely the real one.
A Second Chance at Joy
Because of that trauma, Greg swore we’d never go through it again. It took seven years before we felt brave enough to try.
When I realized I was pregnant again in 2005, I wanted a memorable way to tell him—but it was his busy season at work. So naturally, I did what any rational woman would do: I packed up Wyatt, drove to Casey, Illinois, hit the Hardee’s drive‑thru, and tucked the positive pregnancy test right there in his lunch bag next to the fries.
Yes, it sounds unhinged. No, I have no regrets.
When he opened his lunch and saw that test staring back at him, the look on his face was priceless—shock, joy, disbelief, and maybe a brief moment of “why is there plastic in my food.”
From that day on, anytime we drove by a Hardee’s, Greg had to make a joke about it. It became our weird little family legend. Some families have heirlooms. We have fast‑food‑based pregnancy announcements.
The Shift: Choosing Presence Over Pressure
In those early years with Wyatt, Greg was a workaholic—married to his job like so many men trying to build a life. But by the time Avery arrived, he understood something essential: careers wait. Childhood doesn’t.
He made a conscious choice to be present. While I worked evenings, midnights, and weekends as a 911 dispatcher, Greg became the primary caretaker. I’d be knee‑deep in chaos, and suddenly the back buzzer at the 911 building would ring. I’d glance at the camera, and there he was—my handsome husband with two kids in tow, Avery in pajamas, Wyatt holding a plate of dinner like a tiny waiter.
He handled dinner.
He handled bath time.
He learned to detangle Avery’s super‑curly hair and became a self‑taught braider—a skill no one warns fathers they’ll need.
He sat with Wyatt through homework battles and bedtime routines.
Our parenting styles weren’t always identical. We had our moments of “spirited discussions.” But beneath it all was a shared truth:
Our children came first.
Greg made a thousand quiet sacrifices—the kind that never make it into a scrapbook, but absolutely make a family.
The Silence That Follows the Loss
Now, as Father’s Day approaches, the absence of those moments feels cavernous. I still catch myself reaching for the phone to call him, to ask him to talk me off the ledge after a hard day.
I miss his voice.
I miss his smile.
I miss his smell.
I miss his touch.
I miss him teasing Avery about whichever boy she’s talking to.
I even miss the terrible dad jokes—though maybe not hearing them forty‑five times in a row.
Most of all,
I miss how he made me feel.
This year, the grief is layered. I’m a mother watching her children miss their father, and a daughter still missing her own. It’s an ache that echoes in both directions.
But even in the heaviness, there are moments where the light sneaks in—usually sideways, usually when I least expect it.
Where the Light Still Finds Me
And yet… there is light.
I am profoundly grateful that Greg lived long enough to see Wyatt become a father. He had five months with little Elliott—five months of watching his son step into the same role he once held with such fierce devotion. I see Greg in the way Wyatt holds his son, in the pride that lights up his face. It is a mirror of the way Greg once looked at our children. It breaks me and heals me at the same time.
I see Greg in Avery too—in her pragmatism, her grit, her work ethic, the way she pushes forward even when things are hard. She carries Greg’s determination in her bones, that quiet “get it done” energy he lived by. And she’s also the one who holds her Momma to a high standard. She keeps me honest, keeps me moving, refuses to let me sit in the shadows for too long. That fire to challenge, to nudge, to say “come on, you’re stronger than this”—she gets that from her Daddy, too.
I saw that strength in both of them most clearly on the day we celebrated Greg’s life. Wyatt and Avery each stood up in front of a room full of people who loved their dad and spoke with a courage that took my breath away. Wyatt shared stories with the same spark Greg always had, and Avery spoke with a steadiness and truth far beyond her years.
Watching them honor their father on one of the hardest days of their lives, I knew Greg would have been so proud—not just of what they said, but of who they are becoming.
And I can’t talk about Greg’s legacy without mentioning Addy. He was so excited to have her as a bonus granddaughter, and those two beautiful years he got with her were pure joy for him. He loved her with the same wholehearted devotion he gave to all of us, and I know he’d be so proud of the little person she’s becoming.
And then there’s Elliott—the newest branch on this family tree Greg helped grow. He only had five months with his Grampa Greg, but those months mattered. They were enough for Greg to see Wyatt step into fatherhood with that same fierce devotion he once carried. And now, as Elliott grows, I catch glimpses of Greg in him too—in the spark in his eyes, in the sweetness, in the curiosity that feels so familiar.
He is proof that love doesn’t disappear;
it keeps moving forward,
rooting itself in the next generation,
finding new ways to show up.
The circle continues.
The story shifts.
The love remains.
And even with all that love woven into our days, grief still has a way of sneaking up on me in the most ordinary places. It doesn’t always show up in the big moments; sometimes it ambushes me in the middle of real life, when I’m just trying to do something simple and normal.
Which brings me to my glamorous Monday night at Walmart.
The Walmart Incident (Because Grief Has No Chill)
Right when I had myself fully convinced that I’m now some kind of invincible widow‑warrior, grief stepped in like, “Oh, you think you’re doing well? Cute.”
There I was in Walmart, trying to buy a Father’s Day card for my son like a functioning adult, when my brain decided to hit the panic button. Full cardiac‑episode‑in‑the‑card‑aisle energy. I’m standing there breathing like a yoga app, pretending I’m fine, while my nervous system is reenacting a scene from The Bourne Identity.
Somehow, I pulled myself together long enough to finish my shopping and make it through the checkout line thinking, Whew. Crisis averted. Look at me go.
And then I walked out to the parking lot and couldn’t find my car.
Cue panic round two.
It took me a solid thirty seconds to realize I was looking for my old car—the one from my old life—not the new one I bought after Greg died. That realization hit harder than the panic did.
Because that’s grief, isn’t it? Your brain still reaching for the life you had, even when your body is standing in the middle of the life you didn’t choose.
Grief: 1
Me: also 1, because I still got myself home with all of my items.
I’m sharing this because people sometimes think I’m strong, steady, or “handling it.”
But the truth is: I have moments just like every other widow and widower.
Moments where the world tilts.
Moments where the air gets tight.
Moments where I forget what car I drive because the one I should be looking for isn’t “ours” anymore.
The Things He Left Behind (That Aren't Things)
Greg didn’t leave behind a list of instructions for life or a grand philosophy.
He left behind habits.
He left behind values.
He left behind the way he showed up for people.
I see Greg in Wyatt—the way he teaches, the way he fathers, the way he tells stories with that same spark Greg always had. There’s a gentleness in him, a steadiness, a devotion that is unmistakably his dad’s.
And I see Greg in Avery too—in her pragmatism, her grit, her work ethic, the way she pushes forward even when things are hard. She carries Greg’s determination in her bones, that quiet “get it done” energy he lived by. She also inherited his talent for calling me out when I’m spiraling, which is both helpful and mildly annoying—just like it was when he did it.
It’s a reminder that even in his absence,
his influence is still here,
steady and unmistakable,
woven into the people
who carry his name,
his stories,
and his love forward.
I feel both of them—Greg and my dad—in the way our family keeps moving forward, even with the ache. Their love didn’t end. It shifted. It settled into the people they shaped, the habits they passed down, the stories we tell, and the ones we’re still learning how to live.
This year, I’m choosing to honor them not with perfection, but with honesty. With memory. With love that refuses to fade—even when the calendar insists on making June louder than I’d like.
Father’s Day is going to hurt. It’s going to be messy and complicated and full of moments where the air catches in my throat. But it will also be full of gratitude—for Greg, for my dad, and for the legacy they left behind.
A Note from Jen...
If Father’s Day feels heavy for you this year, you’re not alone. Grief doesn’t follow the calendar; it doesn’t circle June and say “brace yourself.” It just shows up when it wants, loud or quiet, sharp or soft, sometimes all in the same afternoon.
Writing this reminded me that the people we lose don’t disappear—they show up in the ones who keep living. I see Greg in Wyatt’s gentleness and the way he fathers. I see him in Avery’s grit and her get‑it‑done spirit. Their dad is still here, just in a different form, woven into the way they move through the world.
If this stirred something in you, I hope you let yourself feel it—the ache, the gratitude, the love that refuses to fade. None of it is wrong. All of it is human.
Journal Prompts
What parts of the people I’ve lost still live on in the people I love?
How does grief change the way I move through familiar seasons or holidays?
What memories bring both ache and comfort at the same time?
Where do I still feel connected to the people I’ve lost?
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