Lost Conversations

November 2025

By Marty Glidden Holland

“How old were you when your dad died?” 

“Twelve.” I replied. 

“Do you remember him?” 

Yes, I do remember him. But it is from the eyes of a 12-year-old. I remember a man who made me smile. I remember a man who loved, protected us, and reminded us to always be careful. I remember a man who died too young. Now, as an adult, I find myself wondering about the conversations with him that have been lost over the years.

My dad died at the age of fifty-four of pancreatic cancer in 1983. Although it has been decadessince he died, the impact of losing a parent is still there. I had 12 years with him, for which I am grateful. The memories I have, I lovingly cherish. Of course, I wish there were more. More years to get to know him. More milestones to experience with him. More photos to take with him. More wisdom to gain from him. More conversations.

How I remember him remains one of the most profound thoughts I carry through the years as a fatherless daughter. I often wonder how my memories, and the way I describe him might be different if we had been given time for those lost conversations. It feels like there is a “road closed” sign standing in front of me, blocking the path to what could have been. I never got to see what is beyond that sign.

Grieving occurred in many ways, and it evolved over time for me. At first it was about adapting to day-to-day life. I had not only lost a parent, and half of what brought me life. I had lost my normality, as my day-to-day routine changed: the empty chair at the dinner table, the empty spot where his car was in the garage, the empty seat at athletic games or school plays. And finding we don’t quite know how to fix the lawnmower or reach the ladder. 

My grief evolved over time. I then started to grieve the emptiness, the unshared conversations. The grief then extended beyond the loss of the person to grief for what else is missing; what hadnot and will not occur. It eventually became “normal” that he was not in the photos or there forthe milestones. And with that, I realized the absence had become my “new normal” - which did not really feel normal at all. 

I, like other children who lose a parent, experienced a mandatory need to grow up overnight. At a time when I should have been focused on which Cabbage Patch doll was the cutest, or how to solve the Rubik’s Cube, I was learning life lessons and asking questions: Life is short. Tomorrow is not promised. Why do the good die young?

I remember trying to navigate grief, with no internet, very few books, and no community nonprofits like A Haven which supports grieving children and their families. I wish those hadexisted when I was going through it. The work they do is amazing and so needed – because every person is grieving or will grieve. And all too often, our society shows it is not wellequipped to provide the support we truly need to walk through grief together.

Hope does begin to bloom, and with it comes healing. The small steps of healing nurture more hope, creating a cycle of resilience along the way. Trust that there are safe spaces to grieve. Seek them out. Most of all, do not attempt to go around grief. We must go through it, acknowledge it, sit with it, respect it, and continue to honor “our person.” Fleeting sadness continues to appearamong the smiles and laughter. As time goes on, I have found the conversations that cannot be spoken are one of the hardest things to grieve. And I continue to wonder how the relationship would have grown over the years if it weren’t for those lost conversations.

Written by Marty Holland

Member of A Haven’s Board of Directors who has previously volunteered in A Haven’s onsite family groups.