As we watch a nation of kiddos skip off to school today, with backpacks full of envelopes and candy hearts, I think of three precious words that I believe children need hear as well as feel:
I love you.
All cultures have phrases or benedictions that children must hear in order to feel safe. But when essential truths are never spoken, there can be a hole, even in the adult heart.
I’m proud of you. I’m sorry. I believe in you. I love you.
These words have always come easily for me, although I know that many struggle for a lifetime to say them out loud.
When I was growing up, the words I love you were never said in our family. I think it was mostly a generational thing—an assumption that we simply knew that we were loved. Some of us didn’t.
In our twenties, my siblings and I began saying I love you to each other and to our parents. Mom was an easy convert, and joyfully said it back to us for the rest of her life.
But my Dad just couldn’t do it. I heard him say I love you once to my daughter, Lily, and once to my granddaughter, Sophia, when they were adorable toddlers. But he never said it to me.
After my mother moved to memory care, I flew out to see her every six weeks or so, and also to spend precious time with Dad. I’m so grateful for those visits.
A few months before he passed, Daddy and I were having a martini before dinner and I asked him why he had never told me that he loved me. Dad pulled an olive from his drink and looked at me sadly, but didn’t answer.
The next morning, I needed to head back to my home in Virginia. As I leaned in to hug my Dad goodbye, he held the hug and softly sang to me a song that he had heard me sing to my children every night as I tucked them in.
I love you, love you, love you and I always, always will.
I love you, love you, love you and I always, always will.
Daddy couldn’t say it, but he could sing it—and that was just fine.
Oh Leah! What a lovely note. Thank you. Miss you heaps!
Thanks for sharing this, Annie. My parents were easy to say I love you and said it often. I am so grateful for that and also ashamed to write I took it for granted until I met a family more like yours. The mother could never bring herself to say it, ever. She died without ever saying, or singing, or writing, I love you to her children or grandchildren. Your dad came around and I am so happy he did. But that martini moment! Guessing you were both mystified and profoundly sad when he wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your question. Oh, babe. All I known is that you are loved by oh so many. Happy Valentine’s Day!