I will never know the unique pain of losing an only child.

But I know all too well that raising my sons after the death of my daughter was full of challenges.

At the time of her death, our family consisted of my husband and me, our three boys from our previous marriages (ages 10, 9, and 7), and our daughter together, Margareta (age 4). Two of her older brothers were home with us on that fateful day. They watched in helpless fear as the chaos of her drowning unfolded. I remember the police trying to distract me as I continued to scream in horror at the sight of paramedics desperately working on her. They kept telling me to comfort my boys instead. How could I? We had moments of hugging and sobbing together. But I would be compelled to go back and watch the resuscitation efforts to see if there was any sign of hope.

I completely abandoned the boys in their greatest time of need.

We all went to the hospital where doctors tried to resuscitate her in the ER. My stepson and his mom joined us. Despite all efforts, our daughter was pronounced dead. Our boys went to stay with their other parents that night. My husband and I were simply unable to function.

The boys did not return for several days. When they did, we were not the parents they needed. We were captives of our devastation. We did the best we could, but in hindsight, they had not only lost their sister. They had lost their parents too.

In the days and months that followed, we tried to make sure they received the external support they needed.

We took them to a grief counselor and worked with their schools to make sure they had regular emotional check-ins. So they wouldn’t be inundated with uncomfortable questions and unwanted attention from classmates, we tried to keep the knowledge of their sister’s death limited to close friends and sports teammates. We signed them up for grief support activities and groups at a local hospice. We bought them journals to write or draw in and encouraged them to talk about their feelings.

Despite all of this, they never wanted to talk to us about her death or their feelings. They didn’t want to return to the grief support groups after those first sessions and turned down offers to go to a grief support camp for kids. They eventually stopped wanting to talk to the school counselor. It was frustrating to say the least. I was horribly concerned for their wellbeing. As a mother, I hated the idea of them holding in all the painful feelings I was sure they had.

I already felt that I had failed my daughter in the worst way possible. Now I felt like I was failing them too.

My various grief support counselors reassured me that their behavior was normal. They explained that younger children are not equipped to deal with such intense feelings. They need to return to a sense of normalcy to feel safe. Counselors explained that it will likely be many years before they begin to fully process their sister’s death. I was advised to just keep an eye on them for signs of major depression or sudden changes in behavior. So I did.

Despite their need to return to “normal,” I was unable to shield them from my overwhelming grief.

Even if I had tried, I wouldn’t have been able to suppress my tears and obvious sadness. Since I couldn’t, I decided I needed to be honest with them. I needed them to know it was normal to feel sad. I wanted them to know that the painful feelings after the death of a loved one isn’t something you sweep under the rug and never talk of again.

With the birth of their baby brother the year after Margareta’s death, I was faced with a new challenge. How do you raise a child in the shadow of the death of a sister he never knew? We knew he was not a “replacement” of his sister, but how would we make sure he knows that? I wondered if my grief would allow me to be the mother he needed. Thankfully, I was.

I think for all of us, he was the catalyst for reintroducing joy into our lives.

That is not to say our painful feelings of grief magically disappeared on his arrival – quite the opposite. But he taught us that intense pain and joy can coexist together. Feelings of pain can be softened by joy, and grief has the effect of making our appreciation of the sweetness and joys of life become that much more meaningful.

Once he became a toddler, new challenges arose. He could recognize Margareta in pictures, but he didn’t understand why he couldn’t play with her. Trips to the cemetery were normal for him. Although he didn’t really know why we were there. He was too young to explain the concept of death in a way that he truly understood.

Years after her death, I asked my older children what was the hardest part of losing their sister. Their answer was unanimous: they didn’t like thinking about it because it was so painful.

They didn’t want to talk to me about it because it would just make me sadder. They aren’t as uncomfortable thinking about it as much these days, but they don’t go out of their way to do so. Thankfully, as they grew older, they felt more comfortable expressing their feelings.

I know the challenges of raising children in the wake of their sister’s death are probably far from over and will change over time. We don’t know what lies ahead, but we know that we will love and support each other along the way.