Abigail, 29, stood alone at my daughter Emily’s burial while my parents were at my brother’s pool party.
Emily died at six months old from SIDS. As I saw her small coffin be buried, my mother’s harsh comments came to mind: “It’s just a baby. The brother’s party counts more.” That moment destroyed me irreparably.
I always knew my place. My 32-year-old brother Jason was the star. Our parents, Margaret and Richard, made him their pride from birth. His ordinary achievements were celebrated, while mine were scarcely noticed. Even with consecutive A’s, I got half-hearted congrats.
I accepted my spot by high school. I focused on studying and making friends with individuals who appreciated me. In my second year in college, I met Michael. His family seemed nice and attentive, unlike mine, so I believed it was staged. I eventually recognized their affection was genuine.
Michael and I married three years ago at 27. After we announced our pregnancy, his parents planned a baby shower. My parents’ reply? That’s nice. Did Jason say he may be promoted? They spoke mostly about Jason’s trip in the shower.
Emily came in January snow. I felt immeasurable love holding her. Inside hours, Michael’s parents were sobbing with excitement. My parents visited the following day for an hour before leaving for a hair appointment. The next six months, Michael’s parents visited weekly. Mine arrived twice.
Jason proposed two months before Emily died. My parents quickly began arranging a spectacular celebration for Emily’s church dedication weekend. When reminded, my mom remarked, “We’ll have to skip that. Once-in-a-lifetime engagement for Jason.”
I wanted to respond, “So is a baby dedication,” but kept quiet.
Emily had a slight cold the week before she died. She improved by weekend. It was my surprise that they were our last days with her.
As usual, we put her to bed on Tuesdays. The baby monitor was too silent. Fearful, I woke up at 6:00 AM. I discovered Emily cold and motionless in her cot.
“Emily,” I said, stroked her face. She stayed put.
Screaming, Michael doing CPR, phoning 911, paramedics, and a nice doctor saying, “I’m so sorry,” fill the next several hours. It looks like SIDS.”
Calling my mother, my hands shook. “Emily died last night,” I gasped.
“Oh, Abby, that’s awful,” she responded bluntly. No rush. No comfort. “We’ll need to schedule a funeral,” I said.
Just “Yes, let us know when,” she said.
Parents were on their way to Michael.
We scheduled the funeral for Friday at 11 AM. Mom said, “Oh dear, that’s Jason’s pool party day. Our plans are made.”
“Mom, it’s Emily’s funeral,” I gasped.
“I know, but Jason’s involvement matters. Emily was infant. You can get another.”
It felt like a punch. “I see,” I responded, hanging up.
Funeral day was horribly gorgeous. I checked my phone on the way to the cemetery—no parental messages. Just a text from Jason: Sorry about the baby. I hope the funeral goes well. Looking forward to the party.”
Emily’s coffin was very little. Michael’s parents cried alongside us. My parents? Absent. While burying their grandchild, Jason shared celebration images of our parents beaming with champagne flutes.
My mom phoned a week later. “How are you?” she inquired nonchalantly.
“You weren’t there when my daughter died,” I said.
“No need for that tone,” she said. “Jason and Stephanie will be at dinner Sunday.”
I agreed grudgingly. Our dinner talk was all about Jason’s wedding.
“Did Emily’s funeral ruin your party?” Finally, I asked.
“Let’s not talk about upsetting things,” my mother hesitantly murmured.
You mean my kid died? I said.
“What’s done is done,” my father said.
That was two weeks ago! I snapped.
Rolling his eyes, Jason. “You’re dramatic, Abby.”
“Dramatic? You missed my daughter’s death due to a pool party!
“It was a celebration,” my mother said defiantly.
But missing a funeral? Telling me to have another kid?”
The silent Michael spoke out. “Do you realize Abby’s been through?”
My mother said, “We told relatives we missed it due to health issues. Your dad is back…
“You lied,” I murmured.
“We couldn’t say we were at a party,” she remarked.
Rising from my seat, I responded, “I don’t understand.” And I never will.” We parted ways silently.
I started bereavement therapy months later. This was about a lifetime of being ignored, not simply Emily’s burial. Needed their understanding.
I brought them over, put Emily’s portrait on the table, and patiently explained every rejection from childhood to today. I showed them party timestamps. Mom eventually broke down.
“What do you want from us?” she said.
Just acknowledgment. Stop making excuses.”
I read a letter explaining my grief and desire for space. “We can’t rebuild anything unless you fully recognize what happened.”
Dad sneered, “All this over one missed event?”
“It wasn’t one event,” I replied. This was the last straw.
My mom begged, “Please don’t go like this.”
“I’m always here. I answered, “You weren’t.”
Later, my father sent a handwritten note stating, “We were wrong…” I apologize, but I don’t expect forgiveness.” Mom sent an Emily-named ornament. Should have been there. I’ll always regret it.”
Jason donated a rose shrub to Emily’s memorial garden. “I should’ve come,” he said. I’m sorry.”
Their acknowledgment helped, but the sorrow persisted. I joined grieving parent volunteers. I found meaning in my pain.
We had a modest ceremony for Emily’s first anniversary. Mom and dad stood calmly. Jason arrived. We released balloons, and I felt her presence—not in spirit, but in the transformation she inspired.
I lost my daughter but discovered courage and a passion to commemorate her in all I do.
