In the Middle of Father’s Day

Today is Father’s Day.

There are the handmade gifts, sticky toddler hugs, and the joyful chaos that comes with raising a little one. There is laughter echoing through our house, toy cars scattered across the floor, and a little boy who thinks his daddy hung the moon.

And then there is the quiet.

The quiet spaces occupied by children we long to hold. Hope. Baby Z. Haven.

Three little lives. Three children who forever changed us. Three children who made us parents in ways that many people cannot see.

I've learned that when a baby dies, much of the attention understandably centers on the mother. After all, we carried them. Our bodies bear the physical reminders of both life and loss. But grief does not belong exclusively to mothers.

Dads grieve too. They grieve deeply, even when they do so quietly.

I've watched my husband carry losses that few people see. While I was recovering physically and emotionally, he was making phone calls, answering texts, caring for our family, handling the practical details, and somehow finding the strength to hold me together while his own heart was breaking.

He lost children too.

He lost dreams too.

He lost first steps, bedtime routines, family traditions, and years of memories that would never be made this side of heaven.

He lost the chance to teach Hope to ride a bike. To walk Haven down the aisle. To hear Baby Z laugh. He lost pieces of the future he had already begun imagining.

And yet, so often grieving fathers become the strong ones by necessity. They become caretakers, protectors, supporters. The world asks how their wives are doing and rarely pauses long enough to ask how they are.

But fathers who lose babies are fathers still. They are fathers when they raise their children, and they are fathers when they entrust them to heaven.

Their love matters. Their grief matters. Their children matter.

This Father's Day, I want to honor my husband.

Thank you for being the kind of father our children are blessed to call Daddy. Thank you for loving each of our babies so fully, regardless of how long we had them. Thank you for loving Hope, Baby Z, and Haven so fiercely and for continuing to speak their names and carry them with us.

Thank you for making space for my grief while carrying your own. Thank you for showing Sully what steadfast, sacrificial love looks like every single day. Thank you for choosing, over and over again, to love deeply, even when love has brought unimaginable pain.

I know this Father's Day carries both joy and sorrow. I know there are still moments when your heart aches for the children who should be here.

And I want you to know that I see that ache. I see your fatherhood. I see your grief. And I see the incredible man you are because of both.

To every father carrying children in his arms and children in his heart: you are still a dad.

You are loved, your grief is worthy of being witnessed, and your children will always matter.

Happy Father's Day.