In 2020, tongue cancer took my children’s father.

It did not take their love for him.

It did not take their longing.

And it did not take their grief.

My three children are still living every day with the absence of the man who they wished was here raising them, protecting them, loving them.

My seven year old daughter was a daddy’s girl before she even turned two. She would run straight into his arms. Even when cancer took his ability to speak because of tongue cancer, she still ran to him, and he would call out to her in his own way. Their bond never needed words.

Years later, on her seventh birthday a few months ago, when she was asked to make a birthday wish, she didn’t wish for toys or presents. She closed her eyes and wished for her daddy to come back. That moment shattered me, because it showed me that her heart has been holding onto him since the day she lost him.

My 12 year old son lost his father before he ever had the chance to truly know him. Now that he is older, his grief comes as questions. He asks me what his dad was like. What he loved. What kind of man he was. He tells me he can’t wait to meet his father one day. Hearing that from a child is a pain I don’t have words for.

My 14 year old son grieves through soccer. He is obsessed with the game because it was something he shared with his dad. His father loved soccer and loved Ronaldo. They watched matches together and dreamed together. His dad used to say, “I can’t wait until my son is older. I’m going to take him around the world to play soccer. I’ll be his trainer. I’ll be his coach.”

Now my son still loves soccer. He still loves Ronaldo. But the man who was meant to stand on the sidelines, to guide him, to cheer the loudest, is gone.

As cancer took my children’s father, it also took our stability. Financial pressure followed quickly. We lost the car we depended on for work, school, and medical appointments during his illness. Losing transportation during such a devastating time made survival even harder.

Since then, we have faced constant housing instability. Every home feels temporary. Owners sell. Owners move back in. My children keep asking when we will finally have a home that feels safe and permanent. At one point, they believed that moving into a new house meant their dad would be coming back. That innocent hope still gives me goosebumps.

I am working. I am trying. I am doing everything I can. But raising three grieving children is overwhelming. They are too young to ask for help themselves, so I am asking for them.

I am asking because my children deserve a stable home, security instead of constant uncertainty, support as they continue to grieve their father, and the chance to grow without fear of losing everything again.

This fundraiser is not about charity.

It is about humanity.

It is about three children who lost their father too soon and are still trying to understand a world without him.

If you can help in any way, through a donation or by sharing our story, you are helping carry a weight that has been far too heavy for young hearts for far too long.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for caring.

And thank you for helping me keep hope alive for them after losing their father in 2020.

With all my gratitude,

A mother doing everything she can.