The Wrong Parent Died
“Absolutely. One-hundred percent,” Neill answered without hesitation. Karl repeated his question. “Do you really believe your children would be better off if you had died instead of your wife?” “It’s not even close,” Neill said. He quickly counted off all the things Deanna had done for their family, detailing her involvement in just about every aspect of their children’s lives. She was simply a much more important cog in the family wheel. “You guys helped me out with my daughter and the hockey game situation, but Deanna would have handled it on her own.” Neill concluded, “So, yes, for my children’s sake, there’s no question that the wrong parent died.” The discussion leading up to the exchange between Neill and Karl had coalesced around the familiar topic of parental competence—or, as the men often saw it, parental incompetence. Karl had shared his latest blunder, which occurred when he took his two children on a family trip to Connecticut for a wedding. As they were leaving their hotel room for the ceremony, Karl noticed for the first time how his children were dressed. “So, there’s my ten-year-old son wearing this pair of khakis that don’t come close to fitting him. The pant legs stopped about three inches above his ankles and he couldn’t even button the pants because the waistband was so tight. He looked ridiculous, but they were the only pair of pants I’d brought for him to wear.” Yet another instance of being unprepared, something Karl hated. “I’m standing there looking at my son in the hallway of this hotel and I think to myself, ‘No way this happens if Susan were still here.’ ” “I know just what you mean,” Neill said. “Deanna did so many things better than I’m doing them now. I feel like I’m screwing up pretty much all the time.” Then he said the words that caught Karl by surprise: “The wrong parent died.” Neill had never been comfortable opening up about his feelings. He joined the support group only for his children’s sake.