When You’re Gone: Talking to Our Kids About Death, Legacy, and Imperfect Love
“There is gonna be a day you die, and I don't know how I'm gonna deal with that.”
That’s what my teenage son said to me one morning, out of the blue. We were just hanging out, and then came this moment of soul-level vulnerability.
It hit me like a wave.
Part of me thought: This is too heavy for someone his age. And another part of me thought: Holy shit. My kid is this emotionally aware? That’s amazing.
When I was a kid, I had these big, swirling emotions but never knew where to put them. I remember lying in bed, hearing that my older cousin had died from one of those stupid fluke kid accidents, and everyone around me was crying. I couldn't. I felt like a broken thing. I laid there trying to summon tears, even tried imagining my mom dying — nothing. Then I imagined my dad dying.
And I just bawled.
It was like a dam breaking. I cried until I couldn't breathe. That told me something deep and wordless about who I was, and who he was to me.
So when my son asked that question, I started crying too. And I haven’t really stopped since.
My Parents, Two Different Goodbyes
I lost both of my parents in back-to-back years. My mom passed when I was 42. My dad followed at 43.
Losing my mom was... complicated. She was mean. She was dysregulated a lot. She had trauma, pain, alcoholism, and generational rage echoing through her. She loved us, but she threw shoes and books and cutting words. I see echoes of her in the way I used to be, back when I got dysregulated and scared my own kids. I know that cycle well.
My dad, though? My dad was the kindest man I ever knew. He never made me do more than I could. Never pushed. Never shamed. I remember coming home one day with a D in geometry. I was terrified. My mom, of course, yelled and called me lazy. But my dad just looked at me and asked, "Did you try your hardest?" I said yes. And he said, "Then that's good enough for me."
It was like he understood I was neurospicy even before I did.
Parenting While Neurospicy
I didn’t know I was autistic until I had kids and they got diagnosed first. Then it all made sense: the sensory overloads, the shutdowns, the rigid routines, the spirals of emotion.
I used to be the kind of dad who got overwhelmed and scary. I’d yell, slam a door. Dysregulation owned me. But slowly, I started to do better. I let my kids be themselves. I let them cry. I let them make noise. I try to name my limits, explain when it’s getting to be too much.
The difference is... I don’t remember the last time I was scary to my kids. That feels really fucking good to say.
My mom never let us cry. She’d say, "If you're gonna cry, I'll give you something to cry about."
Me? I want my kids to feel what they feel. To not be afraid of their own emotions. To trust that I’ll be there, even in the hard parts.
My Dad, My Hero
My dad had this reputation in his youth as kind of a tough guy, but I only ever knew the soft version. The version that would sneak us gas money even when we were grown. Who would tell stories about his siblings like they were legends. Who would slip a struggling fruit stand vendor an extra twenty bucks because why not help if you can?
One of my favorite memories: I got to go into the city with him for work one day. I had to sit quietly in the office while he negotiated a battery repair deal. Out of nowhere, I just blurted out, "Dad, I love you."
The businessman across the desk got teary-eyed. He handed me an Andes mint. My first one. Still my favorite candy.
After Dad died, someone came to the house and shared a story about how my dad had helped them during a really hard time. That person didn’t have to come. But they needed to. Because my dad had left a mark on their life.
Kindness is amplified in this world. It echoes. It leaves marks on people’s souls.
The Spiral and the Climb
When my dad passed, I felt it in my bones. My cat even came out at the exact moment, almost like she knew. Then the text came from my sister: he was gone.
I hugged my kids harder. I stopped sleeping. I drank too much. My spouse and I clashed over parenting styles. The yelling started again — not from them, but from me this time. It scared the kids.
I haven’t drunk like that since. I saw the path I was heading down. I didn't want to become the kind of parent that left pain as a legacy.
That’s not who my dad was.
That’s not who I want to be.
What I Want My Kids to Know
If there's one lesson from my dad I try to pass on, it's this: love as hard as you can. Love everyone as deeply as possible. We're all flawed, but we can flood the world with love and make it better.
And from my mom? A lesson, too. A warning. That dysregulation, when left unchecked, becomes a kind of emotional violence. If you're a scary parent, your loss won't be mourned the same way. Your memory will carry fear instead of warmth.
I don't want that.
I want my kids to talk about me and their other parent as human beings who always tried our best. Who learned. Who grew. Who helped people. Who let them be weird, silly, noisy, neurospicy kids.
I want them to remember that we stood for what was right. That we didn’t ignore people in need. That we believed in kindness even when others mocked it.
The Conversation
So when my son asked me that morning how he’d handle it when I die, I told him:
"It’s gonna be hard. But I hope you remember our journey. I hope you tell stories about us. I hope you forgive us the parts that weren’t the best.
And I hope you know, more than anything else, that we love you to the moon and back."
We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🚶. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.