Hilary Faverman
If a storyteller and a grammar nerd had babies, they would birth us.

“But why, Mommy….do they hate us?”

I have no room for anger, as I am so fully weighted with heartbroken anguish that nothing else can occupy me. I simply don’t have the capacity for any emotion beyond mourning.

I’m having trouble looking at the screen through the sheet of tears. Or at my children.

Last night, I turned off Facebook. For someone who works in social media, this does not happen. Ever.

I cut myself off from the world, pretending for one last night that there was hope. Still, my phone buzzed and buzzed. I turned it off. I retreated inward, letting the texts full of reports and condolences go unanswered. I was incapable of processing, internalizing, accepting, and went to bed under the forced assumption that a mistake had been made. My confounded husband acquiesced to my request for “no news.”

This morning, the laptop remained dark. My kids asked if it was broken, since they’re so accustomed to me checking the status of things by 6am. The door to the gan was locked. It’s never been locked in the three years I’ve lived here. I didn’t have to ask why. The parents, the gannenot – no one articulated anything. They solemnly turned the key and opened the door for every child, embracing them with hugs. No one mentioned the boys. Knowing looks is all we have to share.

Given that I know my 8 year old will find out at camp, I had to tell her directly before she departed. I waited until my younger children were at gan, and then looked at her with an undisguised, naked face, and she knew instinctively why I was crying. She asked me why. Not the simple why in regards to my tears; why about the murders. “But why, Mommy….do they hate us?”

Since I have no capacity for any emotion beyond grief, I have no answer for her. Would it be productive to attempt an explanation to her question, even if I had an answer? How do I define “they”, “hate” or the reason behind either? I did the only thing I could, through the waves of tears, my wet hair, cheeks, pajamas. I told her that I simply don’t know, that none of us really know, and we probably never will. The bewilderment on her face made us cling to each other.

Today I am grateful for swimming lessons, grocery shopping, and no questions about my crimson-rimmed eyes. I do not have the luxury of completely retreating and falling to pieces. None of us do. We will continue to function, because we have to.

About the Author
Hilary Faverman Communications creates valuable, informative, inspirational content your clients want to consume.
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