One thing I haven’t written about here is that just before Christmas, my husband’s dad died.
It happened just that quickly, too.
When I first met Greg’s dad, I called him the very respectful “Mr. Day.” During that same visit, it didn’t take him long to tire of that. He said, “Now, Lori, if we’re going to be friends, you need to call me John.”
And we were friends.
That was a shocking number of years ago. It’s hard to get used to him being gone, and not just because my husband is now, at 38, an orphan. (His mother had died before I met him. He swears she would have liked me.) And not just because my husband takes after his dad enough that I get all mortality-aware about him, and myself, and other members of my family and his. Or that he raised a son I’m happy and proud to be married to.
It’s hard to get used to, because, well—John was my friend.
The holidays were a little subdued, and rightly so. I got to see my sister and my adorable nieces, got a few gifts (books!) that I’ve enjoyed or will, soon. Or won’t (exercise pants!), but what are you going to do? But I didn’t want such an important milestone in our lives pass by without saying that we are changed, and missing him.