It has been nine months now since Ronen died. Just typing that sentence fills me with immense sorrow and disbelief still, as it no doubt always will. Grief is such a vast, merciless emotion. The levels have levels.
So much has happened, in the way that life happens: Ari went to kindergarten, learned how to read (to read!); lost his first tooth of many since; I taught him how to ride a bike. Lev is in preschool — talking up a storm, out of diapers and over sippy cups. I have plowed through to-do list after to-do list — the cancelling and the renaming of cell phones and bank accounts and bills; the new health insurance; the endless filing. I have become the chief of operations, dealing with ailing appliances and leaky ceilings, even a rogue squirrel trapped in our living room. I’m writing my next book, and teaching.
The family and friends who lifted us up then continue to check in, continue to do. My parents, who have lived in the same house in Mobile, Alabama, for almost 40 years, are uprooting everything to come to Atlanta. My mother-in-law, who lost a husband and then, so unfairly, her eldest son, provides love and solace when her own heart is broken in two. Ronen’s sister and brother, who’ve also lost so much, forfeit their personal pain to make ours sting a little less. My own brother, who surely never thought he’d see his little sister a young widow with two boys to raise, offers his arm to help us hobble into the future.
So many in my shoes cannot claim these same resources. I am forever grateful. But in the hard moments, and there are so many, I close my eyes and imagine Ronen back, walking through the door, swooping the boys into his unrivaled embrace, giving me the break I so badly need. Loving our sons in the way only their parents can.
Two weeks before he died, Ronen sent me a text one afternoon, out of the blue, just because:
“You do such a great job at everything you tackle. Whether it’s writing a book, raising kids, working on the lawn, cleaning the house, cooking — amazing.”
Today, I look at it often, yearning for him.
Now I am left to tackle something else. Single motherhood is much, much harder than I could have ever imagined.
But I am tackling it, just as Ronen would have expected me to. Here I am, doing my best, though my best is far different than it used to be, when I had a partner to pass the baton to. To lean on. To relish with me the parenting victories and nurse the failures, big and small.
I’m tackling it. For him. For us. For me.
ABOUT THE STORY
In this week’s Personal Journey, bestselling novelist Zoe Fishman Shacham shares the heartbreaking story of her husband’s sudden death last year. But through that tragic narrative she weaves the rom-com-worthy story of how the couple met in New York City. It is a candid, heartfelt story of fate and love and loss told with grace and vulnerability. It is an honor to be able to share it today.
Suzanne Van Atten
Personal Journeys editor
personaljourneys@ajc.com
ABOUT THE WRITER
Zoe Fishman Shacham, who writes under the name Zoe Fishman, is the bestselling author of “Inheriting Edith,” “Driving Lessons,” “Saving Ruth” and “Balancing Acts.” Her books have been translated into Hebrew, German, Italian, Dutch and Polish and are also available in audio and large print editions. Zoe worked in the New York publishing industry for 13 years in the editorial department of Random House, the rights department of Simon & Schuster and as an agent for two boutique literary firms before moving to Atlanta in August 2011 with her family. She teaches creative writing at Emory Continuing Education and the Decatur Writers Studio. She is currently working on her next novel, which is tentatively scheduled for release in 2019.
ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER
Bita Honarvar is an Atlanta-based photographer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Guardian US, Chicago Tribune and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, where she was a staff photojournalist and photo editor for 16 years.
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