When to Tell Others About Their Dad’s Death and When to Hold Back

The question stunned me, left me stumped for a reply, torn between telling the truth and a lie.

“So, what does your husband do?” the woman asked, her eyes all innocence and curiosity. Her daughter was new to my children’s school, and they knew nothing of our family’s history.

“Your daughter says her dad works from home.”

I stared at her blankly, as she pressed on, seeking an accounting of a man she had never seen . . . a father who never bothered to show up for his daughter’s school plays and field trips and basketball games.

“Your daughter says he travels a lot. . . . His job must keep him very busy.” I could only swallow and nod . . . and marvel at the workings of my daughter’s mind.

My husband--her father--has been dead for six years now.

I shudder to think what a therapist might say:

Unproductive wishful thinking. Unhealthy reliance on fantasy. A child in need of closure, counseling, a firmer grip on reality.

But my three daughters know their father is dead. They’ve made peace with that truth--in their own clumsy ways.

So when the basketball coach praises their ball-handling skills (“Your dad teach you to dribble like that?”), they simply smile and dribble away. When friends complain about dads who are bossy or loud, my girls nod and sympathize: “I know. My mom does that too!”

They make Father’s Day gifts without complaint--”Here mom, another tie rack for you”--and expect flowers from mommy on Valentine’s Day. Even the third-grader can scrawl “deceased” on forms that call for father’s name.

Still, the loss of a father can be cloaked in shame.

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like explaining, Mommy,” says my daughter, the one whose dad “works at home.”

“I mean, everybody has a dad . . . even if it’s a divorced dad. Sometimes I just don’t want anybody to know.”

It is not true, of course, that everyone has a dad. More than 700,000 children across the country have fathers who have died and, like my girls, live with widowed mothers.

But in their small worlds, my children must sometimes feel very alone. And so I must trust them to safeguard their emotions, to maintain their equilibrium by choosing when to confess and when to withhold.

We used to practice saying it aloud--”My dad died. My dad died. My dad died”--as if that might make it easier to face. It was not the words they choked on, of course, but the reactions that the notion of death provoked.

They have watched new friends recoil in fear, as if the death of a parent might somehow be contagious. Some have probed too deeply for details; others smothered them with pity. It was never mean, mostly well-intentioned, but it opened up new wounds for little girls who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else.

So I stopped scolding, worrying, lecturing them about the futility of hiding behind a lie. I stopped announcing the truth at every chance and started listening and trying to understand.

I heard my teenager queried by a wide-eyed child on the sidelines of a soccer game.

“How come your dad never comes to your sister’s games? Only your mom . . .”

And I could see the wisdom of her answer.

“Oh, he has to work late a lot,” she said, shooting me a look that pleaded for silence. The cold reality of a father’s death--anyone’s father--is more than a 4-year-old should have to absorb. Or, as my daughter told me later, with a glibness she cannot possibly feel: “My innocence is already blown. Why ruin it for that little girl?”

She knows life is not a long-running support group, that conversations are not therapy sessions. That lying is wrong, but there are times when an untruth can be a kindness.

So I no longer feel shame at my daughters’ prevarications. Instead, I choose to explain them away, in a fashion that honors both their needs and their father’s memory: “Their dad died, and sometimes it’s hard for them to talk about it.”

And as I practice backing away, they are learning to step forward, in their own ways.

My third-grader is in science class when the discussion turns to germs and illness and how our bodies can fail to heal. My youngest--typically so shy--raises her hand with something to say.

“My dad got sick and died, when I was 3.” Her voice is soft, but strong, her teacher says.

There is silence for a moment, then another hand goes up.

“Last week, my dad had the flu.” More hands, more examples.

And the science lesson, like life, goes on.

*

We were poolside at a San Diego hotel, on a weekend trip timed to get us out, away from home, give us something to do last Father’s Day.

The elderly couple near us struck up a conversation, while they watched my daughters cavort in the pool.

“What beautiful girls,” the old man said, as they climbed out and assembled near our chairs. “I’ll bet their father must be proud. . . .

“Where’s your daddy, today?” he asked the girls. “He’s missing out on all the fun!”

My girls looked at me; I saw fear flit across their faces. Would I spoil it, put a damper on these good spirits, curry sympathy with confession today?

“Oh, he had to work,” I answered quickly. “He’s very busy . . . traveling.”

“What a shame,” the man said. “Well, a happy Father’s Day to you then.” He tipped his glass toward me, chuckling. My girls smiled back at him, then, conspiratorially, at me.

And as my eldest led them back to the pool, she leaned in and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Thanks, Mommy,” she whispered. “And happy Father’s Day.”

And I lay back and glanced heavenward. Happy Father’s Day, indeed.

*

Sandy Banks can be reached at sandy.banks@latimes.com.