Of course I love my boys and think they are, objectively, the best humans. That should be a given with 9- and 11-year-olds who have had half decent parentage.
But these boys are special. They lost their mother almost three years ago and bring her spirit alive every day. Isaac, the younger, struggles with fading memories of Mary, but he has no idea how much he embodies her compassion and warmth. He’s a half-grump and slow to wake up, just like mama. He’s always thinking of little things to do for people. He gets overwhelmed by the nuclear energy that emits from his dad and older brother. He loves music and art and when he’s in the present, no one else is more present.
Mary and Isaac would have been best friends. They would have built fires and cuddled in front of them. They would have cooked and baked together. They would have slept in on Saturdays while Westen and I went on a morning adventure.
There’s sadness in those “would haves,” but I am grateful for the connection his existence creates with his mother.