I don’t really hate Saturdays. In fact, I love them. They’re the perfect in between day – no residual stress from a long work week and no stressing about the upcoming week. For me, Saturday is the day to clean, do laundry, go for a walk, enjoy my family, etc. I like when Duncan has friends over and I can hear them playing outside or when the neighbor kids come over and ask if he can ride his bike with them to the park near our house.

Patrick used to love Saturdays, too, until last week. His typical Saturday always included an afternoon at his dad’s shop (he used to restore antique Indy race cars). He’d spend a few hours there every Saturday helping his dad. He enjoyed it and he looked forward to it each week. This afternoon Patrick seemed particularly annoyed and I ran through all the possible options – did I say something wrong? Was Duncan acting up? Did he not get enough sleep? But it wasn’t anything like that. It was the one thing I never thought of. It was Saturday. When I asked him what was wrong, he just shook his head and muttered, “I hate Saturdays.”

I feel stuck. When he cries, I know what to do – a hug, some understanding words (as understanding as one can be when she hasn’t lost her parents). It’s when he gets angry and snaps that I feel lost. It’s human nature to want to snap back, but I have to step back and realize where it’s coming from. I try not to say, “I understand” because there is no way I can – I have no idea how he is feeling. I can only imagine how lost he must feel right now. I spend my time tiptoeing around, trying to say and do the right things. I don’t know how to love someone through such a monumental loss. I feel so awkward and cumbersome with my words and motions.

I wish I could change everything. I wish I could bring his dad back. I wish I could at least take away Patrick’s pain.

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