Letter 9: Worth

I am worthy, you are worthy, we are worthy...of living, loving, learning and letting go.

For Russell to share to Mother and Father.

September 13, 1968

Dear Mother and Father,

I’m writing to you today because it’s time.

Over the years, I’ve been healing, slowly, steadily through writing. One day, more than twenty years ago now, I sat down and started writing a letter to Russell. Even though I never knew him, I knew him. From the moment I understood that the baby photo in my room was of a brother I’d never meet, a space opened in me that only writing seemed to fill.

That first letter to Russell came when you, Father, were still alive but Mother was gone. Boy, is that hard to write. Mother was gone.

And Father…well, you were lost in depression, and I was barely keeping my head above water. The house held so much silence, so much sadness, and I was getting swallowed up in it. It was excruciating to leave and return to school, but I knew for my own self-preservation and survival…I had to keep living.

And then, suddenly, you were both gone. I was thrust into a new kind of reality. One without parents. Bill stepped in and brought me to Denver, where I was finally able to pause, breathe, and consider how to keep going. Writing to Russell during that time became a safe, healing space for me to grieve, vent, and slowly begin to make sense of the world. Writing my thoughts and feelings down helped me feel less alone, and maybe for the first time, truly validated.

Now, all these years later, I’m writing to you both for the first time.

I want to share how my life has turned out. And the only reason I can write this is because you had me, taught me, and loved me.

I’m sitting in the backyard of our home here in Topsfield. Mark and Anne, your grandchildren…are playing nearby. They came into our lives not through blood, but through something just as strong: a love that chose them; Chuck and my love. Mark arrived first, a wide-eyed, curious boy who takes in everything around him. He builds, he explores, he asks questions. Two years later, Anne came home to us; a firecracker from the very beginning. Determined, joyful, and eager to follow her big brother wherever he goes.

Our home is full of laughter, tears, chaos, and noise, and all of it feels sacred.

I wanted you both to know that I’m a mother now. Twice over. And somehow, writing these words to you is what makes it feel real. I want you to know that your lives mattered. That you made a difference.

There were so many moments, especially in those early days, when I longed to ask your advice. To hear your voices. To know what you might do when one of this kids had fever, or how you’d calm a stormy tantrum. I wished you could see these children I’ve been trusted to raise, and the life that Chuck and I have built together.

I’ve tried to carry your love and your legacy forward; even through the pain you left behind.

I won’t pretend to understand why you left. I probably never will. But I’ve come to peace with knowing how deeply you were hurting. I think the weight you both carried was heavier than anyone could see.

In my heart, I no longer believe it was a lack of love that led you to go, but something else… something much deeper. An emptiness and an ache. A sorrow that was unsettled. The kind that overtakes the body each time you passed Russell’s room. That ache lived inside you for too long. I feel that now. And I understand it more than I used to.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t a destination. It’s a continuous unfolding, a learning and growing that slowly makes space for hope to return, even while the past still lingers. Healing is a quiet promise: to wake up, to show up, and to love deeply, even when it hurts.

Through the years, I’ve cried more than I thought I could. But I’ve also laughed in ways I didn’t know were still possible. And through it all, I’ve been guided by the pieces of you I carry: your creativity, your curiosity, your sense of adventure, your kindness, and, perhaps most of all your strength. I believe you stayed longer than you thought you could. Maybe because of me. Maybe because of Bill. And for that, I thank you.

Now, as a mother myself, I see so much more. I remember, Mother, the day I found you in my room, clutching Russell’s baby blanket and sobbing. That memory has stayed with me. And in that, I’ve come to understand something essential: I forgive you. I wanted you both to know that, not only for you, but for me too.

I forgive the silence, the tears, the questions that were never answered. I forgive the birthdays and milestones you missed. I forgive the ache that stayed with me for years, and the ways I tried to run from it.

The good news is, I didn’t outrun it, I ended up moving through it. I sought help. I did the work. And I learned that grief doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape. And in that shifting, I found something meaningful.

Mark and Anne were both born on October 6th—two years apart. Isn’t that something? It feels like the universe knew I needed a reminder. That fall, a season of endings and beginnings, could bring something so special. Chuck and I weathered a lot to become a family. We didn’t take the typical road to family, but we chose to keep our hearts open, and from that place, our family came to us out of love, hope, and commitment.

It is because of that hope that your legacy lives on. Through it all, the good, the complicated, the unfinished, it is being carried forward in a new way. Not just in memory, but in motion. In the daily acts of parenting. In the joy and in the softness and the strength, I try to pass on.

Our family may not look how I once imagined it would, but it is full. It is real. And most importantly, I am okay.

I’ve done the work you didn’t get the chance to finish. I’ve cried the tears, asked the questions, and held space for the silence. And in doing so, I’ve found something beautiful, I found a different life. A new kind of love. A beautiful family.

Wherever you are, I hope you can see me now. I hope you know I’ve never stopped loving you. And in my quietest moments, I hope you’re proud.

With all my heart,
Pat